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POEMS BY 
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ENGLISH 



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GENERAL EDITOR 

WILBUR LUCIUS CROSS 

TROFESSOR OF ENGLISH IN YALE UNIVERSITY 




Wi 1 1 i a ni Word sworth 

From an engraving by Henry Meyer after a painting 
by Carruthers 



POEMS 

BY 



WORDSWORTH, COLERIDGE, 
SHELLEY, AND KEATS 



SELECTED AND EDITED 

BY 

JAMES WEBER LINN 

ASSISTANT PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH IN THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO 




NEW YORK 
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

1911 






Copyright. 191 i, 
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 



^ 



\- 



Qc\.A2d24G^ 



PREFATORY NOTE 

This volume includes all the poems by Wordsworth, 
Shelley, and Keats contained in the fourth book of Pal- 
grave's Golden Treasury, with the addition of The Rime 
of the Ancient Mariner, The Eve of St. Agnes, and favorite 
lyrics by lesser poets. 

General Editor. 



CONTENTS 



Introduction 

I. Prelude 

II. William Wordsworth, Life and Works 

III. Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Life and Works 

IV. Percy Bysshe Shelley, Life and Works 
V. John Keats, Life and Works 

VI. The Lesser Poets, Biographical Sketches 
Descriptive Bibliography .... 
Poems of Wordsworth 

The Reverie of Poor Susan 

Simon Lee the Old Huntsman . 

Lines Written in Early Spring . 

The Two April Mornings 

The Fountain: A Conversation 

She Dwelt Among Untrodden Ways 

I Travel'd Among Unknown Men 

The Education of Nature 

A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal 

Lucy Gray ..... 

Ruth: or The Influences of Nature . 

England and Switzerland, 1802 

On the Extinction of the Venetian Republ 

London, 1802 ..... 

To Milton 

When I Have Borne in Memory 



Upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 
By the Sea ..... 

To the Daisy 

The Rainbow 



802 



xni 

xviii 

xxvii 

xxxiv 

xhi 

Hi 

Iv 

3 
3 
7 
8 

10 
12 
13 
13 
15 
15 
18 
26 
27 
27 
28 
28 
29 
29 
30 
31 



X Contents 

PAGE 

Neidpath Castle 2,2 

To The Highland Girl of Inversneyde . . . -32 

The Solitary Reaper 35 

Glen-Almain, the Narrow Glen 36 

The Green Linnet 37 

She was a Phantom of Delight . " . . . 38 

A Lesson 3q 

The Affliction of Margaret 40 

To the Cuckoo 43 

The Daffodils 44 

Ode to Duty 45 

To the Skylark 47 

Nature and the Poet 47 

Admonition to a Traveler ...... 50 

To Sleep 50 

The World is Too Much with Us 51 

Ode on Intimations of Immortality 51 

Yarrow Un visited (1803) 58 

Yarrow Visited (1814) 60 

Desideria 63 

Within King's College Chapel, Cambridge ... 63 

The Trosachs .......-• 64 

The Inner Vision ........ 64 

To a Distant Friend 65 

Poems of Coleridge 

Kubla Khan 69 

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 71 

Love 97 

Youth and Age 100 

Poems of Shelley 

Ozymandias of Egypt . . • • • 105 

Stanzas Written in Dejection near Naples . . . 105 
Lines Written Among the Euganean Hills . . .107 

Ode to the West Wind 112 

The Indian Serenade H5 



Contents 



XI 



/ 



Love's Philosophy 

A Dream of the Unknown 

The Cloud 

To a Skylark 

A Song 

To the Night . 

To the Moon 

Music, When Soft Voices Die . 

One Word Is Too Often Profaned 

The Flight of Lo\e . 

Threnos 

The Invitation 

The Recollection 

To a Lady, with a Guitar 

The Poet's Dream 

A Dirge 

Poems of Keats 

To One Who Has Been Long in City Pent 

On First Looking into Chapman's Homer 

The Terror of Death 

Happy Insensibility 

The Eve of St. Agnes 

The Human Seasons 

The Mermaid Tavern 

The Realm of Fancy 

Ode on the Poets 

Ode on a Grecian Urn 
•^Ode to a Nightingale 

Ode to Autumn 

La Belle Dame Sans Merci 

Bright Star I Would I Were Steadfast 
Poems of the Lesser Poets 

Gathering Song of Donald the Black Sco^ 

A Serenade ..... Sco. 

Coronach ..... Sco^ 



xii Contents 










PAGB 


Hunting Song 


. Scott . . .174 


Datur Hora Quieti . 


. Scott 




175 


The Rover .... 


. Scott 




176 


Jock of Hazeldean . 


. Scott . 




176 


Song to the Evening Star 


. Campbell 




177 


Lord UUin's Daughter 


. Campbell 




178 


Hohenhnden .... 


. Campbell 




180 


Ye Mariners of England 


. Campbell 




181 


Hester 


. Lamb 




183 


On an Infant Dying as Soon as ] 


Born Lajub 






184 


The Old Familiar Faces . 


. Lamb 






186 


Past and Present 


. Hood 






187 


The Death Bed 


. Hood 






188 


The Burial of Sir John ISIoore 


. Wolfe 






188 


The Young May Moon . 


. Moore 






190 


The Journey Onwards 


. Moore 






190 


The Light of Other Days 


Moore 






191 


A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea 


. Cunningham 


192 


Notes and Comment . 




195 


Portrait of WiUiam Wordsworth 


Frontispiece 


Portrait of Samuel Taylor Coleridge 




. 68 


Portrait of Percy Bysshe Shelley - . 




. 104 


Portrait of John Keats 




- . 138 


Portrait of Sir Walter Scott . 




. 


. 


170 



INTRODUCTION 



PRELUDE 

The poems in this volume are all the work of men who 
wrote after the year 1795. Roughly speaking, they rep- 
resent the poetical spirit of the first quarter of the nine- 
teenth century. Furthermore, they are chiefly lyrical in 
character. Two questions about them any interested 
student is likely to ask. First, what was this quarter- 
century like, in England — what at that time particularly 
stirred and interested the EngHsh people? Second, what 
is a lyric poem? 

The first question, whether the reader has asked it or 
not, is one which always should be asked by any reader. 
Literature, good or bad, never proceeds from a vacuum. 
A writer is always to some extent the product and the 
representative of the age he lives in. Now England, in 
this particular quarter-century, was, like the rest of 
Europe, perhaps most gravely interested in what we 
vaguely call "democracy" — that is, the question of how 
best to govern men by educating them to govern them- 
selves. The French Revolution had begun in 1789, con- 
tinued for five or six years, and then been succeeded 
by the triumphs of Napoleon. The French Revolution, 
like the American Revolution of 1 776-1 784, was in its 
way an indication of this great and growing world- 



xiv Introduction 

interest in democracy. The English poets at first, that 
is in 1789, welcomed the French Revolution as a manifes- 
tation of liberty. But the French patriots proceeded to 
the most terrible excesses; Paris was bathed in the blood 
of good and honorable men and women, who had com- 
mitted no crime; and the older poets, Wordsworth and 
Coleridge and Scott, shrinking from such atrocious butch- 
ery in the name of Hberty, began to doubt the value of 
this new "democracy." Then came Napoleon, and con- 
quered Europe. Only one country could resist him, and 
that was England. So from 1797 to 181 5, when Napo- 
leon was finally beaten by the Duke of Wellington at 
Waterloo, England was constantly at war. This war 
produced suffering and distress at home, as war always 
must; so the younger poets, Shelley in particular, seeing 
this distress, accused the government of tyranny, and even 
called Wordsworth and Coleridge, who had changed their 
views, traitors to the cause of liberty and of mankind. 
So Wordsworth assails Napoleon, in the sonnet England 
and Switzerland, 1802; and Shelley in turn laments the 
wrong and evil of his day, in the Dirge; and Scott and 
Campbell, less troubled by questions of right and wrong 
than the greater poets were, sing their soldier-songs and 
sea-songs, such as The Rover and Ye Mariners of England; 
and so each in his own way reflects a phase of this spirit 
of his time. 

But of course war and democracy, and such wholly gen- 
eral matters, were not the only affairs of interest to the 
people of this period. Among other things, men were 
coming to take a new and much more inspiring view of 
nature — that is to say, of flowers, birds, mountains, 
rivers, and whatever is beautiful or picturesque in the 
out-of-doors. The poets of the earlier eighteenth century 



Prelude xv 

had reflected the ideas of their day in considering such 
natural objects rather a bore. Pope, for instance, writing 
about 1730, is concerned only with the fashionable social 
life of London, or with abstract speculations on theolog- 
ical subjects, or with keen clever abuse of his neighbors. 
Gray, in the well-known Elegy, which was published in 
1 75 1, deals with a village churchyard; but he is not inter- 
ested in the churchyard for its own sake, he does not note 
with pleasure the gray-white of the headstones upon the 
dusky green of the grass, or hear the birds chirping safely 
in the elms above it, as Wordsworth might; he uses it as 
a stage-setting for his own melancholy dreamings. Burns, 
in 1785-1786, writes of the daisy and the field-mouse, 
but even Burns is still thinking of beast and flower as 
symbols — the daisy is the humble country poet, the mouse 
is the poor well-meaning fellow for whom life is hard in 
spite of his own good intentions. When, however, we 
come to the nineteenth century, we find Wordsworth de- 
lighting in the cry of the cuckoo, and the rapid shift of 
light and shade upon the wings of a linnet singing in a 
bush; or Byron and Coleridge rejoicing in the grandeur 
of the mountains; or Shelley watching a cloud and de- 
scribing it minutely in verse; or Keats searching till he 
finds the very words which shall most accurately repro- 
duce the gait of a rabbit on a frosty day — "the hare 
limped trembling through the frozen grass." So through- 
out these poems we see revealing itself this new% exact, in- 
dividual joy in observing and picturing bird and beast 
and meadow as they are, and for their own sakes. 

Yet another pleasure of the time was in what we caU 
the " supernatural" — in the mysterious feelings roused 
by the imagination when it dwells in the region outside 
reason. Fairy-stories and ghost-stories, to take the com- 



xvi Introduction 

monest examples, did not interest the eighteenth century 
much. But by the beginning of the nineteenth they had 
become popular, both in prose and in verse. One tale of 
a monk who sold himself to the devil, and finally met his 
death by falling from Satan's clutches seven miles upon 
a granite mountain, was so widely read that its author, 
Matthew Dewis, was universally called ''Monk" Lewis, 
and is still so referred to in literary histories. This in- 
terest in the supernatural, like the interest in natural ob- 
jects, runs thraugh the poetry of the time; it is as well 
studied perhaps in The Ancient Mariner as anywhere. 
Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel, too long for inclusion in 
a volume like this, is another example of its use. There is 
just a touch of it even in Wordsworth, at the end of the 
poem called Lucy Gray. 

The whole period, if it may be summed up in a word, 
was one of enthusiasm. People were interested — interested 
in all sorts of ideas, and not ashamed to say so. The 
charm of scientific study was just becoming known, and 
botany and geology and chemistry and physics were en- 
gaging the attention of more and more Englishmen all 
the time. Travel was easier than it had been, and after 
the wars were over more folk stirred about, and wandered 
through Europe and their own country, getting out of the 
old home ruts. Life became, on the whole, a liveHer mat- 
ter in this particular quarter-century. And this livehness, 
this new freshness of interest, is reflected in the immense 
number of lyric poems which were at this time produced. 

And this statement leads to and partly answers the 
second question — What is a lyric? It is a poem which 
briefly and strongly expresses emotion of some kind. It 
is like a cry, or like laughter, or like a fit of the blues, or 
a sudden burst of hate, or the impulse to jump up and 



Prelude xvii 

cheer and keep on cheering when the home team makes 
a touch-down. It is often a real song; even when a lyric 
is not intended to be sung, it has always song-Hke quali- 
ties. Such poems as Wordsworth's My Heart Leaps Up, or 
Scott's Coronach, or Shelley's Dirge or Indian Serenade 
are true lyrics. Of such longer poems as The Ancient 
Mariner or Keats's Eve of St. Agnes one may say that they 
are not exactly lyrics, but lyric in their effect. They tell 
a story, which a true lyric does not do any more than a 
sudden shout of laughter tells a story; on the other hand, 
they are full of the most real and passionate emotion. 
All kinds of emotion are expressed in lyric form. There 
are lyrics of war and its delights, like Hohenlinden and 
Ye Mariners of England and the Gathering Song of Donald 
Dhu and the Burial of Sir John Moore; lyrics of gay love, 
like Moore's The Young May Moon, and sad love, like 
Shelley's One Word is Too Often Profaned, and light love, 
like Scott's Rover, and lost love, hke Wordsworth's She 
Dwelt Among Untrodden Ways; lyrics of joy in nature, like 
Wordsworth's To the Cuckoo, and joy in life, like Cunning- 
ham's A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea: lyrics of grief, like 
Hood's The Death Bed and Keats's Bright Star and Lamb's 
Hester. To enumerate and classify lyrics, even the lyrics 
in this little book, would be to enumerate and classify all 
the emotions any one can feel. And because the emotions 
of this time, 1800 to 1825, ran strong and yet were easily 
stirred, whether by war or love or sunrise, the time was 
a lyric time in England; and no generation since, or pos- 
sibly no generation that preceded, unless it may be Shake- 
speare's, has produced so many wonderful poems of this 
type. 



xviii Introduction 

II 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

Life and Works 

Great poets do not often lead adventurous lives, but 
at the same time they are not usually in spirit peaceful 
men. They are likely to be fine-grained, full of high am- 
bition, tender-hearted — "loving all things great and 
small." They can be relied upon for sympathy and un- 
derstanding. They will combat wrong wherever they see 
it. But at the same time because they are impulsive, they 
are easily excited. Sometimes they quarrel with their 
neighbors, or even with their wives. It was a great poet 
who was expelled from Oxford for defiantly refusing to 
obey the university regulations; another who was called 
the wickedest man of his time; a third, well known if not 
really great, whose life was said to be one long lawsuit, 
and who once, so the story goes, threw his cook bodily out 
of the window into the garden. If they were not emo- 
tional they could hardly write great poetry, and they do 
not always try to control their emotions; therefore the 
world calls them odd and queer. 

William Wordsworth was at heart as fierce as any of 
them, but he kept his feeling under. He trained himself 
to peacefulness. His Hfe was as quiet as a man's could be, 
more quiet than any other great poet's except perhaps 
Tennyson's. The proper material of poetry, he said once 
in a famous essay, is "emotion recollected in tranquil- 
lity," and because he lived for poetry he hved tranquilly. 
His life stretched over eighty years. When he was born, 
in 1770, George the Third was on the throne of England, 



William Wordsworth xlx 

and the Declaration of Independence by the Colonies was 
not even thought of. He died in 1850, a subject of Queen 
Victoria, George the Third's great-grandniece, at a time 
when the rumblings of coming Civil War could already be 
heard underground in America. He was born before the 
secret of steam was discovered; when he died the railroad 
was an old story. Those years from 1770 to 1850 saw 
more radical changes in European experience and thought 
than probably any other period of the same length in 
European history; but Wordsworth passed them placidly 
in the country. He has proved to be of immense power 
in modern existence, but throughout most of his own life 
he was unheard of. One of the residents of his neighbor- 
hood, an intelligent gentleman, in 1818, when the poet was 
almost fifty and had done all his best work, asked a visitor 
whether it was true, as he had heard said, "that Mr. 
Wordsworth sometimes wrote poetry." 

His life divides itself pretty clearly into three parts — 
the years from 1770 to 1798, which were years of prep- 
aration; from 1798 to 1814, in which, between twenty- 
eight and forty-four, nearly all his most effective writing 
was done; and the long stretch of forty years, the latter 
half of his life, in which he very slowly gained recogni- 
tion and influence, although the abihty to put his thoughts 
into supremely beautiful verse, as we can see now, had 
almost entirely left him. Why he lost that ability, no one 
can say. With few exceptions the great English poets 
began to write when they were very young, but most of 
them wrote nobly even to the end. It was so with Chau- 
cer; it was so with Shakespeare; it was so with Tennyson; 
it was so with Browning. But with Wordsworth it was 
not so; and some have wondered whether the extreme mo- 
notony of his country habits, buried as he was beside the 



XX Introduction 

Cumberland lakes, far away from the violence and passion 
of his times, did not deaden his emotions and petrify his 
powers. 

Of what his life was like, as a boy and a young man, he 
has left a careful record in a long poem called The Prelude. 
The subtitle, more accurately descriptive, is ''The growth 
of a poet's mind." In it he describes, in minute detail, 
and often beautifully, what he did and felt and thought 
while he was growing up and learning to appreciate his 
own weaknesses and his own strength. In those days 
there was much less interest than now in games; but 
Wordsworth, who was tall and strong, had a fondness for 
such outdoor exercises as walking, and particularly for any 
sports that kept him near the water — swimming, sailing, 
rowing, and skating, in the last of which he excelled every- 
body, being able to cut his own name upon the ice, a feat 
still notable even in that lake-strewn north-of-England 
country-side where everybody skated. He was fairly pop- 
ular therefore as a boy, though, as he says, "of a moody 
and violent temper." He came of a good family, and 
though his father died poor, two uncles looked after his 
education by sending him to Cambridge. There he re- 
mained three years, from seventeen to almost twenty-one, 
taking his degree in January, 1791. In after years he felt 
that he had wasted his time at Cambridge, as men often 
do regret the way they spent their time in college; but 
he was not sorry he had gone there, as few men who go 
to college are. He read a great deal, wrote a little 
now and then, showed his impulsive disposition by going 
one vacation for a walking tour in the Alps (being 
oddly enough the very first undergraduate, so far as there 
is any record, who ever tried that amusement), and he 
studied at least enough to get his degree with decent credit. 



William Wordsworth 



XXI 



Nowadays, at least in this country, he would have 
looked about for a business or profession. In fact he did 
consider the matter, and rather wished to be a soldier, but 
saw too little prospect of getting on to consider it. He 
had no talents for the law, shrank from the ministry, and 
was without capital to go into business. Even thus early 
his inclinations turned to poetry. With a very small al- 
lowance he lived in London for a short time; traveled in 
France; and finally in 1795, having received a legacy of 
£900 ($4,500) from a friend, settled down in Dorsetshire, 
with his sister Dorothy, to devote himself steadily to 
poetry. Nothing in this, so far, of excitement! But the 
rest of his days were to be passed even more simply. 
True, just before the close of the century he went abroad, 
spending a very cold winter in Goslar, a little German 
town, where he wrote some of his best poems. His sister 
accompanied him, a young woman of great charm and a 
fine mind, who devoted herself absolutely to her brother, 
and by her encouragement and sympathy did much to 
keep Wordsworth at his best. Her Journal, or daily ac- 
count of their lives, is often as interesting as her brother's 
poetical description of the same experience. 

Returning from Germany, in 1802, he married a Miss 
Mary Hutchinson, a friend of his sister's whom he had 
known a long time. They went to live in Cumberland, 
near the Scottish border, the country in which Words- 
worth had been brought up. Here five children were born, 
of whom he was passionately fond, but who were, if his 
neighbors are to be beheved, a little afraid, or, let us say, 
a little in awe of him. There was very little money, and 
less care for it, apparently. In twenty-five years, from 
1795 to 1820, the sale of his verses brought him a sum 
which, if averaged, would come to almost precisely fifty 



xxii Introduction 

cents a week. Naturally the family did not live on this. 
At first there was the interest on his legacy; later he was 
given a fairly good position as distributor of revenue 
stamps for his county, a place he held until 1842, when 
he resigned it to his son. In that year, also, 1842, he was 
given an annual pension of £300 (about $1,500) and next 
year was made poet-laureate of England. No wonder, 
however, in the thirty years following the marriage, that 
Mrs. Wordsworth was known as a "manager." "She 
was a plain woman; she never gave you an inch on the 
butcher's bill," admiringly said, long afterwards, one of 
the tradesmen she had defeated. And while first Dorothy 
Wordsworth and afterwards the poet's wife looked after 
the household, and kept the accounts, and bullied the 
butcher and the baker, the poet continued steadily, se- 
renely, on the path he had worked out for himself. As 
when a boy, so as a man he was a great walker. He knew 
every inch of the Cumberland neighborhood — the high- 
ways and the hillsides, every bend in the streams, every 
cove in the lakes, every rock on the mountain and every 
flower beside it. To sit down and write was, curiously 
enough in a professed literary man, painful to him; to 
handle a pen threw him into a cold sweat. So his custom 
was to compose half aloud to himself while walking, and 
then upon his return home to dictate to his sister or his 
wife the fines which he had thought of. As thus he went 
about muttering to himself, he was an object of consid- 
erable interest to his neighbors, the country farmers, and 
even of some terror to children. He was conscious of the 
strangeness of it, and for some years had a dog which he 
had trained to run before him and whenever they met any 
one to come back and give warning; upon which the poet 
would stop muttering his verses and walk on quietly until 



William Wordsworth xxiii 

the passer-by was out of hearing. But on the whole the 
country-side was proud of him. "He would start a bum- 
ming, and it was bum, bum, bum, stop; then bum, bum, 
bum again; his lips were always going the w^hole time he 
was on the walk." So one innkeeper described him years 
later; and another neighbor once said, when the poet had 
returned from a visit — "Well, there he is; we 're glad to 
hear him booing about again." 

So one must think of Wordsworth, year after year, dec- 
ade after decade, while the world moved on about him, 
kingdoms falling and new empires of knowledge opening 
everywhere, living his still and meditative life; break- 
fasting, and not seldom dining, upon oatmeal porridge; 
spending his days afoot, and in his evenings, as he has 
written, accustomed to sit 

"In the loved presence of his cottage-lire 
And listen to the flapping of the flame, 
Or kettle whispering its faint undersong." 

He had always friends near him, that group among others 
including Coleridge, Southey (poet-laureate before Words- 
worth; his poetry almost forgotten now) and De Quincey, 
the eloquent opium-eating dwarf; in his later years, too, 
as his reputation spread, his home became the goal of 
various pilgrims; but of the general life of England he 
knew httle. It is odd to note, for instance, how little he 
was affected by his great fellow-poets, Byron, Shelley, 
and Keats, who were all much younger than he, but who 
had all done their work and passed away, years before 
he became famous. Byron he dishked; Shelley he ig- 
nored; Keats he met once but paid no attention to. In 
such an existence, so narrow and self-centered, there is 
nothing to stir our imagination, nothing to arouse a warmer 



xxiv Introduction 

feeling than respect. Had Wordsworth lacked genius, his 
life would have been too dull to waste a thought on. But 
he had genius, genius that needed quiet for its growth, and 
so we can only be thankful that the opportunity for quiet 
was allowed him. He died in 1850, having outlived all 
his friends but De Quincey, all his children but two, and 
all his ignorant critics. 

With such a man the history of his poetry is the only 
important history. What then were his ideas? How did 
he set them forth? Why has he been so unanimously 
called a great poet? 

Wordsworth grew up in the latter part of the eighteenth 
century, just when men everywhere were re-discovering 
what had been for some time forgotten — that although 
society, that is to say mankind, must be governed by laws 
and rules, it is nevertheless made up of individuals, and 
its value as a whole depends upon the value of these in- 
dividuals. The eighteenth century EngHshman distrusted 
anything strikingly new or original. Fashion governed 
ideas and their expression, as well as clothes. Against 
this habit of the times, Burns, who was only eleven years 
older than Wordsworth, was in rebellion when he wrote 
A Man's a Man for a' That. Wordsworth's character 
was very different from that of Burns, but Wordsworth 
was like Burns in opposing the government of fashion in 
belief and fashion in expression. He had what he believed 
to be new ideas, and he determined to express them to 
suit himself, regardless of what the critics said were the 
rules of poetry. Poetry, Wordsworth thought, should be 
full of emotion, of feeling; and this feeling should be given 
in as simple language as the poet could possibly find. "A 
selection from the real language of men," he called it; by 
which he meant, not flat and dull words, but honest 



William Wordsworth xxv 

words, words that really try to make clear exactly what 
the writer means. ''Reddening Phoebus Hfts his golden 
fire," the eighteenth century poets had written, meaning 
that the sun rose; and to this elaboration Wordsworth 
objected. As for the feeling to be expressed, it did not 
matter what aroused it, so long as the feehng itself was 
sympathetic, spontaneous, and powerful — a river might ex- 
cite it, or the sight of a child, or a girl leaning on a gate in 
the Highlands, an overworked donkey, a peasant piling 
stones, a rainbow, daffodils, or sunrise over the city. 
Compare with the line quoted above, Reddening Phoebus, 
the stanza — 

"My heart leaps up when I behold 
A rainbow in the sky: 
So was it when my life began, 
So is it now I am a man; 
So be it when I shall grow old, 
Or let me die! " 

This is as simple as the simplest prose — simple in its sub- 
ject, simple in its form, simple in every word. But for 
all its simpHcity, it is much more effective poetry than the 
hollow elaboration of Reddening Phcebus. 

Time and again, it is true, Wordsworth carried his theo- 
ries too far. He wrote of things which the people found 
ridiculous. His Peter Bell is an instance, — a long poem 
about a wicked tramp who is reformed by force of the ex- 
ample of his virtuous donkey. He was sometimes, in his 
determination to be simple, only very dull. He himself 
was a poor judge of his own work; and though his friends 
advised him, he found it hard to accept their advice; for 
the professed critics said that all his work was bad, and 
he knew in his heart this could not be so. Therefore he 
wrote what came into his head, good and bad; and as 



xxvi Introduction 

long as he had his full powers, the good was equal to the 
best that had been written since Milton died, nearly a 
century and a half before. 
l.^ His first w^ork of real importance was published in 1798 
(when he w^as twenty-eight years old), in a volume called 
Lyrical Ballads. Coleridge also contributed four poems 
to this volume; one of the four was The Ancient Mariner. 
Of Wordsworth's own poems, the best known was that 
usually called (in brief) Tintern Abbey. The Lyrical Bal- 
lads were reissued in 1800, with a preface containing his 
theories of poetry explained at length in prose. Seven 
. years later Wordsworth published more poems, in two 
volumes; seven years later still, in 18 14, a very long poem 
called The Excursion. From this time on to the end of 
his life, the poet published with increasing frequency; but 
after The Excursion, except in rare instances, he wTote 
nothing that added to his fame. The wonderful gift of 
melody was gone, the gift that makes the poet differ from 
the writer of verse — the inexplainable something that no 
effort of searching will secure, that is not only meter and 
vowel sounds and consonant sounds and meaning all 
combined, but something deeper still ; the melody that can 
produce such lines as we find in The Education of Nature — 



"And beauty born of murmuring sound 
Shall pass into her face"; 

or in The Solitary Reaper — 

"Will no one tell me what she sings? — 
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
For old, unhappy, far-ofif things 
And battles long ago"; 

or in the Ode on Intimations of Immortality — 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge xxvii 

"Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal Silence"; 

or in the sonnet By the Sea — 

"The holy time is quiet as a nun 
Breathless with adoration." 

But if he wrote no more poetry that was truly magnificent, 
w^hat of it? The immortality he believed in was his; he 
passed at length into the "eternal Silence," but his work 
remains as long, at least, as the English language endures. 



Ill 

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 

Life and Works 

Tell the story of many a poet's life to a practical busi- 
ness man, who works ten hours a day in his office and 
provides honestly for his family, and he will say, "That 
is only a history of failure." 

By the standards of every-day success, he will be right. 
Chatterton is called the "marvelous boy," but he com- 
mitted suicide at nineteen. Shelley quarreled with his 
family, deserted his first wife, and died almost unknown. 
Wordsworth at the age of thirty-five was earning five hun- 
dred dollars a year. Tennyson was for ten years engaged 
to be married before, at forty-one, he had enough to sup- 
port a wife. And Coleridge, whose greatest poem is per- 
haps the best known in the English language — Coleridge, 
of whom William HazHtt once said, "He talks, and your 
only wish is that he should talk on forever"; Coleridge, 



xxviii Introduction 

whom Wordsworth called ''wonderful," Charles Lamb 
''inspired," and Carlyle "sublime" — Coleridge was, from 
the practical point of view, never anything but a conspic- 
uous failure. He dropped out of college without taking 
his degree. He married, and left his wife and children to 
be supported by others. He started newspapers and saw 
them die upon his hands. He was a master-poet at the 
age of twenty-six; and by the time he was thirty he had 
dissipated all his poetical power. "His mind," wrote his 
friend Robert Southey to his friend William Wordsworth — 
"his mind is a perpetual St. Vitus Dance — eternal activ- 
ity without action." If Coleridge had been a bad man in 
any way, this "waste of unequaled powers" could be more 
easily understood. But he was a good man — good like 
a child, though he had the mind of a giant. His defect 
was in his will power. His thoughts could not travel any- 
where in a straight line. Even when he walked along a 
road, he was continually shifting from one side to the 
other, as aimlessly as a hen. So lacking in directive force, 
how immense must have been the gifts that enabled him 
to fascinate every one with whom he came in contact! 
Merchants paid his debts, his children adored him, his 
friends worked patiently to undo the mischief that his 
well-intentioned heedlessness brought about. When he 
was at Christ's Hospital in London, that famous charity 
school where the daily routine consisted of fat meat and 
a flogging, passers-by, we are told, stood "entranced in ad- 
miration" to hear him speak. Because he was in love, 
and could not pay his debts, he ran away from college and 
enhsted in a cavalry regiment — (he, who had never been 
on horseback!). But very soon an officer noticed his ap- 
pearance, saw him writing Latin on the stable wall, and 
procured his discharge. In his old age the brightest young 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge xxix 

men in England sat at his feet, listened spellbound while 
he talked for hours and hours, and called him prophet and 
seer. Of all the men of his time, it is Coleridge who has 
been most and best described by his contemporaries. And 
as we read of his dark and striking face, his flashing gray 
eyes, under heavy black eyebrows, his low, musical, pen- 
etrating voice, his eloquence, "borne on the gusts of 
genius," "launching upon his subject as an eagle mounts 
upon the wind," we are no longer surprised at the impres- 
sion he made upon his generation ; we are only amazed that 
all this genius ran to waste, sank into the ground like 
water, and left so httle but muddiness behind. Yet here 
and there it was caught and turned into streams that 
beautified the world. 

"The tumult and the shouting dies, 

The captains and the kings depart," — 

the practical, successful men of affairs carry on their busi- 
ness and are buried and forgotten, but still the poet's 
name lives on, and the poet's work is a pleasure and an 
inspiration. After all is said, the fact remains that it was 
Coleridge who wrote The Ancient Mariner. More than a 
century has passed already since that unequaled poem was 
published. Many more will pass, and the English lan- 
guage will change entirely before the world is tired of 
reading it. 

Coleridge was born in 1772, the youngest child of a 
large family. His father was a kindly, eccentric, learned 
parson, who had hard work to provide shelter and food 
for his children; Coleridge's mother was a competent, un- 
educated woman, who never really understood her son. 
Coleridge as a child was precocious, imaginative, fond of 
reading and bored by children's games. His education 



XXX Introduction 

was begun early at the boys' school in London called 
Christ's Hospital; later he went for a time to Cambridge, 
but never took a degree. After leaving the university in 
1794, he determined to devote himself to literature, and 
he worked hard if unsteadily for three years. It was not 
until he came under the influence of Wordsworth, however, 
in 1797 and 1798, that his powers fully showed themselves. 
The Ancient Mariner was thought out and written in 
the autumn of 1797. At that time Coleridge was living 
close by Wordsworth and his sister Dorothy. They 
planned a walking trip, and as they had very little money, 
the idea came to the two poets of writing something in 
collaboration, which they might sell to a magazine, and 
so pay their expenses. Coleridge had been telling of a 
dream of a friend of his about an old sailor whom ghosts 
had haunted and finally shipwrecked. Would this do for 
a subject? Wordsworth agreed, but suggested that if the 
sailor had committed some crime, there would be more 
reason in his being haunted. The day before in a book of 
"Voyages" he had been reading of the great veneration 
most seafaring men had for the bird called the albatross. 
Could not the crime of the sailor — "the old navigator" as 
Coleridge preferred to call him — be the killing of an al- 
batross? With so much of the story in hand, they began 
composing. Very soon, however, Wordsworth saw that 
Coleridge was better able to work alone; and he hmited 
his own contribution to a few lines. 

"And listens like a three-years child — 
The Mariner hath his will," 

is Wordsworth's; so is 

"And he was long and lank and brown 
As is the ribbed sea-sand." 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge xxxi 

Ail the rest of the poem is Coleridge's own. As he worked 
over the poem the scope of it grew larger; the poet aban- 
doned the idea of printing it in a magazine, and began to 
think of making it the central poem of a book which 
should be made up of poetry by both authors, chiefly on 
supernatural subjects. The next spring, 1798, they ac- 
tually did issue such a book. It w^as called Lyrical Ballads; 
The Ancient Mariner and other Poems. It made no stir 
whatever; hardly any one bought it but sailors, and they 
were deceived by the title, thinking it a volume of songs 
for use on shipboard. Very few copies of that first edi- 
tion are still in existence and they are almost worth their 
weight in gold now. Besides The Ancient Mariner, the 
Lyrical Ballads contained only three little pieces by Cole- 
ridge, whereas Wordsw^orth contributed seventeen, one of 
them the splendid Tintern Abbey. Yet so magical and 
so complete has been the charm of The Mariner, that to 
Coleridge more than to Wordsw^orth the subsequent fame 
of the Httle book has been due. 

Why is The Ancient Mariner so widely read and so 
much liked? Some poems are praised by the critics, like 
many of Wordsworth's, but for one reason or another never 
become popular. Others enjoy tremendous popularity, 
but because their form is weak or their feeling shallow, by 
and by the public tires of them, and they are forgotten. 
But here is a poem which every one, the critical and the 
uncritical ahke, unite in praising. No two people wall 
agree, perhaps, on the finest lyric in English, or the best 
sonnet, or the greatest ode or elegy; but they will agree 
that the English language knows no other ballad quite 
equal to The Ancient Mariner. Why? 

Partly because the story is interesting; it would be in- 
teresting even told in prose. Partly because the pictures 



xxxii Introduction 

are so sharply, clearly, vigorously painted — sunset in the 
tropics, the dead men working the ship, the icebergs, and 
the strange beings of the other world. Partly because 
there are really no weak spots in the poem anywhere; it is 
not only good, but all equally good, a very rare thing in 
poems of any length. Partly because the music, the mel- 
ody of the whole poem is so simple that any one can appre- 
ciate it, yet so varied that no one can grow tired of it. All 
these things one may discover in this ballad; each genera- 
tion discovers them, and welcomes them afresh. 

Coleridge wrote The Ancient Mariner in 1797, when he 
was twenty-five, and published it in 1798, when he was 
twenty-six. Those two years were the best in Coleridge's 
life, the ''wonderful years," as they have been called. He 
was married and still in love ; his acquaintance with Words- 
worth was bringing out all the strength of his poetical pow- 
ers; and he had not yet fallen into the habit that subse- 
quently helped to destroy his chances of success. In 1797 
and 1798 he wrote all but two of the poems that have since 
been called great. Two of these -poems have interesting 
histories. One, Kubla Khan, he dreamed, and afterwards 
wrote down from memory just as he had dreamed it; only 
unfortunately while he was writing it down a visitor in- 
terrupted him, and when the visitor had gone the poet 
could not remember any more of the poem. The other 
poem, Christabel, is in a way still more odd. It was written 
in a meter that had never before, Coleridge thought, been 
used. Most of the poem was written in 1797, but it was 
not published anywhere for nineteen years. Meanwhile 
various people read it in manuscript, and thought it very 
remarkable. Sir Walter Scott, among others, knew of it; 
and Coleridge always believed and declared that Scott took 
from Christabel the meter of the Lady of the Lake, The Lay 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge xxxiii 

of the Last Minstrel, and the rest of the poems that made 
Scott famous. However this may be, it is at least a fact 
that Coleridge used this now well-known measure before 
Scott did. Christahel is a fine poem, but it has never 
shared the popularity of The Ancient Mariner, partly be- 
cause it tells a less interesting story, and partly because it 
was never finished. 

Why was it never finished? Why did Coleridge, though 
he lived more than thirty-five years longer, write no more 
great poetry? The reason, like most reasons for failure, is 
complicated. Part of it lay in the man's nature, part in 
his bad health. He had always been visionary, unprac- 
tical, queer. Now, with a family to support, and nothing 
to live on, he worried himself sick. He got fearful dys- 
pepsia from bad food at irregular hours; he took no care of 
himself, and neuralgia attacked him. To ease the pain, 
he began, just about the beginning of the century, to take 
opium. From this time on his chance of development was 
ended. He did not become such a slave to poison as De 
Quincey was, who used to take sometimes more than a 
quart of laudanum a day. Coleridge indeed, toward the 
close of his life, conquered the habit, but not until it had 
spoiled his manhood. He tried this and that, made a Httle 
money as a dramatist, as a journalist, as a critic, but gave 
it all up finally and was content to let his good friends take 
care of him, as they were proud to do. There is a certain 
resemblance between Coleridge and Wordsworth in this 
early end of their poetical ability. Both wrote little or 
nothing of poetical value in the last thirty-odd years of 
their lives. But the failure of Coleridge is much more 
striking than Wordsworth's. Wordsworth at all events 
did a strong man's work; Coleridge had only one brilliant 
year and a half, and that at twenty-five! 



xxxiv Introduction 

Yet to call the author of The Ancient Mariner a failure 
would be absurd. One of the poet's immediate descend- 
ants — his great-nephew — became Lord Chief Justice of 
England, the highest legal ofhcer in the land. He was a 
very able man, with a fine mind; he did great good; he 
earned more money in a year twice over than the poet in 
all his days; he *'sat before kings/' as the Bible says. But 
what is the Lord Chief Justice's fame, what did he do for 
the world, compared with his great-uncle, who had so sad 
a life, but yet who wrote The Ancient Mariner? In the an- 
swer to that question lies the justification of the poet. 



IV 
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

Life and Works 

In the sketch of Wordsworth's life and poetry, it was 
said that because he was in opposition to the general ideas 
of England about poetry, very few Englishmen of his own 
day cared to read what he wrote. Percy Bysshe Shelley, 
who was born in 1792, when Wordsworth had just left 
Cambridge, and who died in 1822, when Wordsworth 
had still almost thirty years to live — was in violent op- 
position not only to English ideas of what was right in 
poetry, but to Enghsh ideas of what was right in Hfe. In 
consequence, Enghshmen not only were indifferent to what 
he wrote, but also disHked what he did. His father quar- 
reled bitterly with him; the Oxford authorities expelled him 
from the University; the law took away his children from 
him, and refused even to let him see them, on the ground 



Percy Bysshe Shelley xxxv 

that he was not fit to associate with them ; and finally pub- 
lic opinion drove him from the country, and forced him to 
live and die abroad. Does it not all sound as if Shelley 
were a criminal, or at least a very evil-hearted man? He 
was not. He was perhaps nearer right about most things 
than his country was. He was as honorable and pure- 
minded as any one in England; as honorable and pure- 
minded as the Chief Justice who refused him the right to 
see his ow^n children. Yet one can hardly blame the people 
of his time for thinking of him and doing to him as they 
did. They wanted to stand still; he wanted to push ahead. 
He did impatient and violent things, such as trying to stir 
up Ireland to rebellion, and he said things still more vio- 
lent — things foolish, absurd, sensational, bad. He was as 
obstinate as only an honest, strongly emotional man can 
be. He refused to make any concessions to w^hat other 
people thought right. So what could his neighbors do but 
quarrel with him, and finally drive him out? We, nowa- 
days, can see how honest he was, how clean-minded, how 
generous, above all, how great a poet; they could see him 
only as a rebellious, disobedient, abusive, inconstant boy, 
a dangerous citizen, and a writer of vague verses, advo- 
cating strange theories, and impossible to understand. It 
must be remembered that nearly all the poetry for which 
we now call Shelley great was wTitten after he had been 
practically exiled; it was pubKshed in an obscure fashion; 
and it came, therefore, to the notice of very few people. On 
the whole, famous as Shelley has now become, it is hard to 
see how England could have treated him in any other way 
than it did. 

Shelley came of higher rank than either Wordsworth or 
Coleridge. His father was a knight. Sir Timothy Shelley. 
The son was sent to Eton, a school for the sons of rich men 



xxxvi Introduction 

and noblemen, where he distinguished himself by refusing 
to "fag." Fagging meant running errands and doing odd 
jobs for boys higher up in the school. It had been the 
custom for centuries. When Shelley refused to fag, the 
older boys thrashed him, but in vain. He would cry, 
but he would not fag. So they called him ''mad Shelley" 
and gave him up in disgust. He never became popular at 
Eton, but before he left he had defied the teachers as he 
had defied the pupils, and so had gained some notoriety at 
least. 

At Oxford he had more freedom than at Eton. He spent 
his time in reading Greek and philosophy, making wild 
experiments in chemistry (then a much less known science 
than now; it was not taught at Oxford, nor anywhere else 
in England), taking long cross-country walks, and writing 
novels and poetry. He and a young man named Thomas 
Jefferson Hogg, who subsequently wrote his biography, 
lived together an odd and secluded life. They saw a great 
deal of each other and almost nothing of any one else. 
They met at one o'clock each day and read or talked until 
six, at which time Shelley usually went to sleep on the rug, 
with his "Httle round head" close up to the fire. At ten 
o'clock he woke, and the friends talked or read again until 
two in the morning or later. He took his meals irregu- 
larly, often forgetting to eat anything at all. Of Shelley's 
appearance, and the appearance of his room, Hogg has 
left excellent descriptions. 

''His figure was slight and fragile, and yet his bones and 
joints were large and strong. . . . His clothes were ex- 
pensive and fashionable; but they were tumbled, rumpled, 
unbrushed. . . . His complexion was delicate and almost 
feminine, of the purest red and white; yet he was tanned 
and freckled by exposure to the sun. . . . His features, 



Percy Bysshe Shelley xxxvii 

his whole face, and particularly his head, were, in fact, un- 
usually small; yet the last appeared of a remarkable bulk, 
for his hair was long and bushy, and ... he often rubbed 
it fiercely with his hands, or passed his fingers through his 
locks unconsciously, so that it was singularly wild and 
rough. . . . His features . . . breathed an animation, a 
fire, an enthusiasm, a vivid and preternatural intelligence, 
that I never met with in any other countenance. . . . 
But . . . the voice . . . was excruciating; it was intoler- 
ably shrill, harsh, and discordant." Such was the poet at 
eighteen; such he remained except that his harsh voice 
softened greatly. As for his room — ''Books, boots, pa- 
pers, shoes, philosophical instruments, clothes, pistols, 
linen, crockery, ammunition, and phials innumerable, with 
money, stockings, prints, crucibles, bags and boxes, were 
scattered on the floor and in every place. . . . The tables, 
and especially the carpet, were already stained with large 
spots of various hues. ... An electrical machine, an air- 
pump, a galvanic trough, a solar microscope, and large 
glass jars and receivers, were conspicuous. . . . Upon the 
table by his side were some books, lying open, several let- 
ters, a bundle of new pens, and a bottle of . . . ink, . . . 
a piece of deal, lately part of the lid of a box . . . and a 
handsome razor that had been used as a knife. There were 
bottles of sodawater, sugar, pieces of lemon, and the traces 
of an effervescent beverage. Two piles of books supported 
the tongs, and these upheld a small glass retort above an 
Argand lamp. I had not been seated many minutes be- 
fore the Hquor in the retort boiled over, adding fresh 
stains to the table, and rising in fumes with a most disa- 
greeable odor. Shelley snatched the glass quickly, and 
dashing it in pieces among the ashes under the grate, in- 
creased the unpleasant and disagreeable effluvium." 



xxxvili Introduction 

Shelley, as has been said, did not remain at Oxford long. 
Before he left, however, he and Hogg played a practical 
joke on the Oxford scholars that is still remembered. 
Shelley wrote some wild verses, which the two friends 
published under the title of Posthumous Fragments of Mar- 
garet Nicholson. Margaret Nicholson was a crazy woman 
who had attempted to assassinate King George, and had 
been put in an asylum. But the poems attributed to her 
were gravely received and widely read at the University. 
It was shortly after this that Shelley came into conflict 
with the University authorities. He had had printed and 
circulated a pamphlet attacking some of the doctrines of 
Christianity. As Oxford was one of the two strongholds 
of religious education in England, the faculty objected to 
this action and called Shelley to account. His attitude 
was defiant; so was that of Hogg, his friend, who was also 
mixed up in the affair; and in the end they were both ex- 
pelled. 

After his expulsion from Oxford Shelley went up to 
London, and presently, to every one's astonishment, eloped 
and married. The girl was called Harriet Westbrook; she 
was only sixteen, a small, blonde, pretty girl, madly in 
love with Shelley, but not otherwise very interesting. 
Their married life was a series of disastrous attempts at 
housekeeping — in Scotland, Ireland, Wales, and England, 
wherever an impulsive fancy led them. After a few years 
they found life together intolerable; they separated by 
mutual consent, and the poor young woman subsequently 
committed suicide. The whole story of this marriage is 
obscure; but though Shelley was undoubtedly fooUsh and 
impractical throughout, there seems no reason to believe 
that he was any more to blame than she was. 

Her tragic death, however, was a great factor in turn- 



Percy Bysshe Shelley xxxlx 

ing public opinion against Shelley. He had already pub- 
lished a good deal of poetry that was undeniably intended 
to show his hatred and contempt for the ordinary religion 
and government of his own day — poetry the wildness of 
which is only to be excused by its own brilliance and the 
poet's youth. And besides, he had again eloped, this 
time with Mary Godwin, another sixteen year old girl, 
daughter of a philosopher and novehst well known in those 
days, though now forgotten. It was at this time that he 
was denied the right to bring up or even to see the chil- 
dren of his first marriage. Soon after, in anger and dis- 
gust with England, he fled abroad, and never afterwards 
returned. 

Practically all his great poetry was written in the next 
five years. He wandered over Italy, stopping here and 
there, in Florence, Rome, or Pisa, as his fancy chose, for 
weeks or months at a time. He met Byron, whose fame 
as a poet was at that time far greater than Shelley's own; 
in fact Shelley himself firmly believed Byron to be much 
the abler man; but the two poets had an excellent in- 
fluence on each other, Byron learning grace from Shelley, 
and Shelley perhaps clearness from Byron. At first he was 
in bad health; later, however, he grew stronger than he had 
ever been. Most of the time he was happy in spite of his 
exile, and even in spite of the death of the two children 
of his second marriage. He was wedded to a woman who 
passionately loved him and who brought out the best 
that was in him; he was surrounded by few, but those 
very dear, friends — and above all he was conscious of 
being able to do better and nobler work every year. He 
wrote constantly, sometimes very rapidly — seven or eight 
long poems, many lyrics, and even a play, which has been 
called by many critics the finest poetic drama in English 



xl Introduction 

since Shakespeare. His verses gradually lost their wild- 
ness and vagueness, and became at the same time more 
musical and easier to understand. Perhaps the best 
known of all, the Adonais, was written the year before 
Shelley died. It is an elegy, or lament upon the death of 
John Keats, his fellow-poet. Little if any poetry of the 
sort has ever surpassed it. 
The last stanza of the Adonais is as follows: 

"The breath whose might I have invoked in song 

Descends on me; my spirit's bark is driven 
Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng 

Whose sails were never to the tempest given. 
The massy earth and sphered skies are riven! 

I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar! 
Whilst, burning through the inmost veil of heaven, 

The soul of Adonais, like a star, 
Beacons from the abode where the eternal are." 

To call this a prophecy of Shelley's own death would be 
absurd. Yet in the light of what happened the lines have 
a strange interest. In the spring and summer of 1822, 
Shelley was living on the Gulf of Spezzia on the coast of 
Italy. Hearing that a friend from England, Leigh Hunt, 
had arrived at Leghorn, fifty miles away, Shelley and a 
young friend named Williams sailed over to see him. They 
spent a week at Leghorn, and on July 8, 1822, set out for 
home. The weather for weeks had been dry and fine; 
but hardly had they left port when a sudden storm drove 
down from the hills. A watcher in the lighthouse on shore 
counted seven sails before the storm struck; half an hour 
later, when the sun came out again, he saw only six. Shel- 
ley's vessel had gone down. Afterwards divers found her 
sunk so quietly in sixty feet of water that not even the 
cushions of the seats were gone. More than a week 



Percy Bysshe Shelley xli 

later the bodies of both Shelley and Williams were cast 
on shore miles away. By order of the government both 
were burned; but Shelley's ashes and his heart were 
saved, and buried in the Httle Roman cemetery near to 
Keats. 

Concerning many of Shelley's longer poems there is 
much dispute. They are rightly called vague, obscure; 
they have been thought, in their passionate protest against 
society and the accepted order of things, very wrong. 
But a hundred years has helped them; what in its ow^n day 
was wild seems less wdld now, and their beauty has not 
dulled. As for the lyrics, each successive generation has 
united to praise them. The Skylark, the Ode to the West 
Wind, The Cloud, and many others, have a music magical, 
a delicacy almost supernatural, a feeling as strong as it is 
pure. They sound not as if a man had written them, but 
as if a bird had sung them. "Ethereal spirit, pilgrim of 
the sky!" — so Wordsworth described the skylark, and it is 
Shelley's best description. 

The material of these lyrics, it may be noted, is almost 
all tinged with melancholy. In such a poem, for example, 
as The Indian Serenade, where the lover is addressing his 
mistress, and where we might expect therefore a certain 
happiness to express itself — even there, melancholy reigns. 
The Stanzas Written in Dejection are among the saddest 
in English poetry; the Dirge is as mournful as the cry of 
a lost child ; even The Cloud and The Skylark have an un- 
dercurrent of depression. The fact is, Shelley w^as too 
finely strung ever to be happy. He saw, as we all see, 
that this world is full of suffering — men, women, and Httle 
children dying of hunger all around us, and sinking into 
wretchedness of spirit worse than death. He saw it, as 
we all see it; but most of us can forget it in other interests, 



xlii Introduction 

and Shelley could never forget it. So his most beautiful 
songs are sad songs. For gaiety, for lightness of spirit, 
we most turn to Scott, to Moore, to Keats even. But for 
sheer and sincere pathos, unblunted by sentimentality, 
these shorter verses of Shelley stand supreme. 



JOHN KEATS 

Life and Works 

John Keats, latest born of the group of poets that dis- 
tinguished the early years of the nineteenth century, died 
so young that he may be said hardly to have had a history. 
He lived less than twenty-six years. It is interesting to 
compare his career with that of Thomas Carlyle, who was 
born in the same year with Keats, 1795. Carlyle, by i860, 
was perhaps the most famous person in the English lit- 
erature of his day; even now he would probably be voted 
by most critics the ablest prose writer of his century. 
Yet if Carlyle had died when Keats died, in 1 821, he would 
have died unknown. We should not have had even a 
paragraph in the biographical dictionaries to tell us that 
he once existed. His only epitaph, his only monument 
would have been a line on some crude headstone in a for- 
gotten Scottish cemetery. Of course writers of prose do 
as a rule develop later than poets do. But if Wordsworth 
had died at twenty-five, or Coleridge, or Scott, or Tenny- 
son, or Browning, the world to-day would remember 
nothing of them. Shelley was drowned at thirty; but he 
did all his great work in his last five years. Byron per- 



John Keats xlili 

ished in the swamps of Missolonghi at thirty-six, but at 
twenty-five Byron was still a passionate boy, with Httle 
or nothing written that hinted definitely of immortahty. 
Perhaps no other writer of English ever achieved such 
poetic triumph in his first quarter century as Keats did. 
His early death was for this reason one of the most mourn- 
ful things that the history of English poetry has known. 
Keats was a cockney. He was born over a stable in 
London, of an undistinguished though not a poverty- 
stricken family. It is said that like many other Londoners 
of his rank he had difficulty in pronouncing his h's cor- 
rectly. He was from the first a boy of a strong temper, 
with a love of fighting that amounted to a passion, — a 
short, broad-shouldered, fiery lad, quick to resent and 
quick to forgive. All his short life he was on terms of the 
closest intimacy with his two younger brothers — George, 
born two years after John, but bigger and more powerful, 
and Tom, two years younger still, a frail boy who died 
of consumption at eighteen. But George Keats has said 
of John — 'Sve fought fiercely ... we loved, jangled 
and fought alternately." Another schoolmate wrote: 
"Keats . . . would fight anyone — morning, noon and 
night. It was meat and drink to him." In 1818, Keats 
himself writes — "went to the theater here the other 
night . . . and got insulted, which I ought to remember 
to forget to tell anybody; for I did not fight and as yet 
have had no redress." About the same time he discov- 
ered a stalwart young butcher tormenting a cat, and in a 
stand-up fight, by rounds, thrashed him soundly. But 
the testimony to his pugnacity is far exceeded in amount 
by the evidence of his charm. "The generosity and dar- 
ing of his character, with the extreme beauty and anima- 
tion of his face . . . captivated the boys." "He was not 



xliv Introduction 

merely the favorite of all, like a pet prize fighter, for his 
terrier courage; but his high-mindedness, his utter un- 
consciousness of a mean motive, his placability, his gen- 
erosity, wrought so general a feeling in his behalf that I 
never heard a word of disapproval from anyone, superior 
or equal, who had known him." When his mother lay 
dying of consumption the boy of fifteen "would suffer no- 
body to give her medicine, or even cook her food, but 
himself." When the younger brother developed the same 
disease, it was John who nursed, guarded, and encouraged 
him as long as the boy lived, and who alone was with him 
as he died. A few months before John Keats himself died, 
he wrote to a friend concerning Miss Fanny Brawne, the 
girl he loved — "The thought of leaving Miss Brawne is 
above everything horrible — the sense of darkness coming 
over me. ... I can bear to die, I cannot bear to leave 
her. . . . Everything I have in my trunks that reminds 
me of her goes through me like a spear. . . . There is 
nothing in the world of sufficient interest to divert me 
from her a moment. O that I could be buried near where 
she lives!" A man who could love so and fight so, had 
it is plain the emotions of a poet. 

But what of the training that is as essential as emotion 
to the production of poetry? That training Keats had, 
too. In fact, the careful education of all great Enghsh 
poets (except Shakespeare) is one of the most noticeable 
things about them. Poetry is the expression of deep 
feeling, but such expression to be effective must be dis- 
ciplined. From the time he was fourteen Keats read vo- 
raciously — he even read at his meals when he was a school- 
boy, eating "from beyond a book." History, philosophy, 
science, he read whatever came his way; the Greek and 
Latin classics also he devoured, the Latin in the original, 



John Keats xlv 

the Greek in translation. His favorites always, however, 
were poetry and romance. After he left school he was ad- 
vised by his guardians to study medicine, and in the old- 
fashioned way he first served as ofhce-boy and general 
helper to a physician, and later "walked the hospitals" 
in London — that is, acted as interne. His fellow-students, 
who knew his passion for reading and versifying, and the 
many nights he spent in the study of other than medical 
works, were surprised when at the end he stood high in 
his examinations and was licensed as a surgeon. He per- 
formed various operations creditably; but his dreams and 
longings invaded the operating-room and terrified him 
with the fear that he might at some critical moment be- 
come careless. Perhaps of all men a doctor can least af- 
ford to think of anything except his work. So Keats de- 
liberately turned his back on surgery. "My last opera- 
tion," he said to a friend, "was the opening of a man's 
temporal artery. I did it with the utmost nicety, but re- 
flecting on what passed through my mind at the time, my 
dexterity seemed a miracle and I never took up the lan- 
cet again." He was hardly twenty-one. He had been al- 
ready a poet in heart and aspiration for live or six years. 
Now he turned to poetry as a profession, and in the next 
three years achieved undying fame. 

Of course he had for some time been writing and circu- 
lating verses in manuscript among his friends, of whom 
he had many. The dearest to Keats at this time was 
Charles Cowden Clarke, son of his old schoolmaster. 
The best known to us were Shelley (with whom Keats was 
on friendly terms, though never intimate, or able to for- 
get the difference in their rank), and Leigh Hunt, a hand- 
some, black-haired, light-hearted improvident young man, 
a third rate poet and essayist, but a first rate critic, who is 



xlvi Introduction 

now remembered chiefly for the greater men who knew 
and Uked him, and on whose work and life he exercised a 
strange influence. Hunt had been prosecuted, and im- 
prisoned for two years, for no other offense than telling 
the truth in a newspaper he conducted, about the Prince 
of Wales. The result was that many of the young men 
of the time, haters of tyranny and lovers of free speech, 
w^ere attracted to Hunt and made friends with him. Keats 
met Hunt at the critical time when surgery was beginning 
to prove itself an unsafe trade for a born poet. Hunt 
read the young doctor's verses and encouraged him heart- 
ily to go on writing, and published for him his first printed 
poem. They read together, wrote sonnets (in a kind of 
friendly competition) on the same subjects, and became 
known to the other literary men of the day as intimates. 
Keats's first volume of poems was brought out in 1817. 
Like the Lyrical Ballads of nineteen years before, it fell 
flat. But no one knew better than Keats himself that 
it was faulty. "As to what you say about my being a 
poet, I can return no answer but by saying that the high 
idea I have of poetical fame makes me think I see it tower- 
ing too high above me. At any rate I have no right to 
talk until Endymion is finished." Endymion was the long 
poem upon which he immediately set to work after his 
first volume appeared. He wrote with the greatest stead- 
iness. ''He sat down to his task, which was about fifty 
lines a day, with his paper before him, and wTote with as 
much regularity and apparent ease as he wrote his let- 
ters." He tells a friend, "I find I cannot exist without 
Poetry — without eternal Poetry; I began with a Httle, 
but habit has made me a leviathan. I had become all in 
a tremble from not having written anything of late; the 
sonnet overleaf did me good; I slept the better last night 



John Keats xlvii 

for it; this morning, however, I am nearly as bad again." 
Yet when Endymion was published, Keats said in the 
preface that the poem contained "great inexperience, im- 
maturity, and every error denoting a feverish attempt 
rather than a deed accomplished. ... It is just that this 
youngster should die away; a sad thought for me, if I 
had not some hope that while it is dwindling I may be 
plotting and fitting myself for verses fit to live." Such 
w^ords, though modest, indicate, however, no despondency. 
Keats w^as confident, at this time, of his own powers. 
''I think," he said, ''I shall be among the English poets 
when I die." He was right. But he might well have de- 
spaired if he had known how soon that death w^as coming. 
Endymion, like the shorter poems, made no sensation. 
It gave a chance, however, for the publication in a maga- 
zine called the Quarterly Review of a criticism so harsh 
and brutal that for years the legend was that it had 
' ' killed Keats. ' ' Byron wrote in Don Juan, 

"John Keats, who was killed off by one critique, 
Just as he really promised something great . . . 
Poor fellow, his was an untoward fate; 
'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle. 
Should let itself be snuffed out by an article." 

And Shelley based on this idea his elegy on Keats, Adonais, 
the most splendidly colored of all Shelley's vivid poems. 
We know now, since the publication of Keats's letters, 
how little the review really affected him. "The attempt 
to crush me in the Quarterly has only brought me more 
into notice, and it is a common expression among book- 
men, 'I wonder the Quarterly should cut its own throat.' " 
The real reason for the savageness of the review (which 
called the poet contemptuously "Johnny Keats," and or- 



xlviii Introduction 

dered him "back to the shop, Mr. John, stick to plasters, 
pills," etc.) was not the badness of Endymion, but the 
fact that Leigh Hunt and Keats were friends. For the 
Quarterly was as much a political paper as a literary; it 
hated Hunt's opinions, and therefore it abused his friends. 
The review was brutal, the man who wrote it was a cad, 
but since it indirectly inspired Adonais, who can regret 
it now? 

This review appeared in September, 1818. What gave 
rise to the story that it killed Keats was the undoubted 
fact that after that autumn of 18 18 Keats's health failed 
steadily. He had spent part of the summer in a walking- 
tour in Scotland, roughing it in the rain. The exposure 
was too much for him; it stirred in him the seeds of con- 
sumption, of which his mother had already died and his 
brother Tom was dying. Close attendance on this brother 
all through the early winter of that year, made matters 
worse. "I live now," he wTote, *'in a continual fever. It 
must be poisonous to life." Tom's death saddened while 
it made Keats's days easier. The torture of a passionate 
love affair with Miss Brawne began, too, about this time — 
torture, because almost no sooner had he learned the 
strength of his feeling for her, than, medically trained as 
he was, he suspected also that he was doomed. His final 
confession to himself of the truth we have in the words 
of his friend Charles Brown: 

"One night ... he came into the house in a state 
that . . . was fearful. He . . . instantly yielded to my 
request that he should go to bed. I followed with the 
best immediate remedy in my power. . . . Before his 
head was on the pillow, he slightly coughed, and I heard 
him say, 'That is blood from my mouth.' I went towards 
him; he was examining a single drop of blood upon the 



John Keats xllx 

sheet. 'Bring me the candle, Brown, and let me see this 
blood.' After regarding it steadfastly he looked up in my 
face with a calmness of countenance that I can never 
forget, and said, 'I know the color of that blood — it is 
arterial blood — I cannot be deceived in that color — that 
drop of blood is my death warrant — I must die! ' " This 
was in February, 1820; and a year later, February, 182 1, 
he was dead. 

The history of that last year is all of misery. The disease 
grew quickly worse. He could do no work, except to re- 
vise the proofs of his last volume of poems, w^hich was 
published in July, 1820; he spent his days ''lying on a 
white bed, with white quilt and white sheets; the only 
color . . . the hectic flush of his cheeks." In Septem- 
ber, as a last desperate chance, he sailed for Italy; after 
a few weeks in Naples, drove the two hundred miles to 
Rome, and there settled down to die.' '' I feel the flowers 
growing over me," he said, and he used to ask the doctor, 
"When will this posthumous life of mine come to an 
end?" It ended February it,, 1821. His friend Joseph 
Severn w^as with him all the while. They were almost 
the same age. It is strange to remember that Severn 
died also in Rome, fifty-eight years later! The house in 
which Keats died was recently bought by an association 
of EngUsh and American lovers of poetry, and is now 
kept up as a memorial of the poet, and of Shelley. The 
tw^o, who died within eighteen months of each other, are 
buried in the English cemetery at Rome — ''a light of 
laughing flowers above their graves is spread." 

Compared with the amount of poetry that Wordsworth, 
Byron, SheUey, Tennyson, or Browning wrote, Keats's 
total production is very slight. It may all be put into one 
small volume; But even one or two poems, as in Gray's 



1 Introduction 

case, are sometimes sufficient to ensure fame, and Keats 
wrote enough to make the wonderful nature of his powers 
clear. The longest poem, Endymion, though it contains 
many beautiful passages, he was right in thinking imma- 
ture. The next longest, Hyperion, he never finished. 
Other extended efforts, Isabella and Lamia, are well 
known, but not quite of the first rank. His finest achieve- 
ments were The Eve of St. Agnes, half a dozen splendid 
sonnets, the little ballad called La Belle Dame Sans Merci, 
and the famous group of odes — to Autumn, to Indolence, 
to Melancholy, to a Nightingale, and on a Grecian Urn. 
For vividness of color, beauty of figure, and witchery of 
melody, it would be hard if not impossible to find any lines 
in EngHsh poetry to equal his. "The silver snarling 
trumpets 'gan to chide," "And still she slept an azure- 
lidded sleep," "Its little smoke in pallid moonshine 
died," "From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon," 
"Beaded bubbles wdnking at the brim," "Forever wilt 
thou love and she be fair"— there is about all these, 
whether elaborately worked like the first or simplified 
almost to monosyllables like the last, a marvelous fasci- 
nation to the ear — a fascination that rises to its greatest 
height, perhaps, in two lines from the Ode to a Nightin- 
gale — 

"Charm'd magic casements opening on the foam 
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn." 

Critics have called Keats's poetry "sensuous," that is, 
concerned with things that delight the senses, like odors 
and flavors and sounds, rather than with what delights 
the mind and the spirit. Some of it is sensuous, frankly 
so. Keats was attracted by physical sensations. The 
story goes, for instance, that on one occasion he covered 



John Keats li 

his tongue with cayenne pepper, to thrill with the fiery 
torment of the smart. His imagination played with rich 
colors and poignant perfumes and sweet sounds. But if 
such had been his only material, his work must have 
died. He goes far beyond physical sensations in such 
lines as these from the Grecian Urn: — 

"Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought 
As doth eternity! Cold Pastoral! 
When old age shall this generation waste 
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 
Than ours, a friend to man"; 

or these again from the Nightingale: — 

"Quite forget 
What thou among the leaves hast never known, 
The weariness, the fever and the fret 
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan." 

His one attempt at the ballad form. La Belle Dame Sans 
Merci, is as striking a success in its simplicity as the Odes 
are in their richness. It is hardly a story, rather a picture 
of a knight whom love has enchanted to his ruin. It may 
be that while he was writing it Keats was thinking of his 
own wild passion and the beginning of his own sad end. 
At all events the poem equals anything of Coleridge on 
Coleridge's own ground — the supernatural. 

What heights would Keats have reached had his strength 
not failed him? No one can tell, of course. He might 
have thrown away his powers like Coleridge, or lost the 
gift of melody, like Wordsworth; but this it is hard to 
believe. The faults of his poetry are boyish faults, faults 
of judgment and taste, faults which it seems likely he 
would have altogether outgrown. The charm of it is in 
spite of these things. Shakespeare as a young poet had 



Hi Introduction 

precisely the same faults. At his best, and free from these 
faults, Keats showed a splendor of picture-making imag- 
ination far more striking than Shakespeare or Milton pos- 
sessed at twenty-five. Had he lived to be as old as they, 
he might perhaps have become the greatest poet in the 
EngHsh language. 



VI 
THE LESSER POETS 

Biographical Sketches 

Sketches have been already given of the four early nine- 
teenth century poets who are commonly called the great- 
est of their time. But, as is always true, the great poets 
were not the only ones who wrote beautiful poetry; many 
others occasionally rose to splendid verse. A httle of 
this verse, either for its own sake alone, or because it is 
well known, has been added here. A word or two about 
its writers wdll be in place. 

Sir Walter Scott (177 2-1 83 2) was the most famous of 
the lesser poets. In fact, in his own day, he was far more 
famous than any of the four who have already been dis- 
cussed. His poetry, romantic, picturesque, and full of 
adventure, suited nearly everybody, though Scott said 
himself, half -seriously, that boys and soldiers were partic- 
ularly fond of it. There is a story which illustrates his 
point. In 1808, when the English were fighting Napoleon 
in Spain, a company of soldiers was lying partly exposed 
under fire. To keep the men steady one of the officers 
read aloud the story of the battle from The Lady of the 



The Lesser Poets liii 

Lake, then a new work; and the soldiers lay still, only 
now and then interrupting the reader with cheers. 

Scott was born in Edinburgh in 1772. He studied law, 
but was chiefly interested in history and the Scottish 
legends. He began his real career as a poet when he was 
about thirty-five years old, and went on with it ten years. 
Then he left verse-making and turned to novel-writing, 
which he kept up constantly for the rest of his Hfe. For 
his services to literature he was made a baronet in 1820. 
Out of both his poems and his novels he made a great 
deal of money ; but he became involved in the bankruptcy 
of a firm of publishers, which left him $400,000 in debt. 
The debt he paid off finally, but the struggle wore him 
out and killed him. Scott was one of the most friendly, 
generous, loyal men who ever wrote English, and in his 
own time he was perhaps of all authors the best-loved. 

Thomas Camphell (177 7-1 844), Thomas Moore (1779- 
1852) and Thomas Hood (i 799-1845) were also men of 
reputation in their own day, though of nothing like the 
popularity of Scott. Campbell is remembered for his 
patriotic and martial verse — Ye Mariners of England is a 
famous national song. Moore w^as an Irishman, a true 
song-wTiter ; many of his poems, such as Oft in the Stilly 
Night, The Last Rose of Summer, and The Harp that Once 
Through Tara's Halls are best known with their musical 
settings. His longest poem, very popular in its own day, 
is Lalla Rookh. Hood was chiefly a humorist — a man 
something like, in spirit, our own Oliver Wendell Holmes, 
never too comical to be unsympathetic. 

Charles Lamb (i 775-1834) was the most brilliant essay- 
ist of his day. He is better known for his prose than for 
his poetry. Adopting the nom de plume of ''Elia," he 
wrote scores of papers, intimate and whimsical, w^hich 



liv Introduction 

have as much charm for the ordinary reader now, as they 
had a hundred years ago. Of the poems given here The 
Old Familiar Faces is perhaps the only one, however 
(though he wrote many), which is still widely read. 

Allan Cunningham (i 784-1842) was a Scotchman, a 
poet and prose-writer, who did a great deal of magazine 
work, but like Wolfe is famous for one poem, the song 
here given. 

Rev. Charles Wolfe (1791-1823) is also a poet of a single 
production, The Burial of Sir John Moore. Not great 
poetry, it has something about it nevertheless, quick, pa- 
thetic, and simple, which has kept it fresh in every one's 
memory. Sir John Moore, an English general, was killed 
in 1809, while leading the English against the French, 
near Corunna, in Spain. His death stirred up some feel- 
ing in England, because he was thought to have been sac- 
rificed to government policy. Seven years later, Charles 
Wolfe, a young Irish clergyman, happening to read an 
account of Moore's death, scribbled off the famous lines 
in a friend's room. Later, when they were published, they 
were at first attributed to Byron, who declared that "he 
wished he had done them." Others since then have 
claimed the honor of their authorship, but there is no 
doubt that they belong to Wolfe. 



DESCRIPTIVE BIBLIOGRAPHY 



WORDSWORTH 

The most satisfactory edition of the poetical works of Words- 
worth, for the ordinary reader, is that published in one volume 
by the Macmillan Company. A m.uch larger and complete 
edition is that of W. Knight, in eight volumes. Knight's 
William Wordsworth, in three volumes, is also the standard 
biography. But the short life of Wordsworth by F. W. H. 
Myers in the English Men of Letters Series is excellent. An 
admirable criticism without biographical details is Raleigh's 
Wordsworth. Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, and Coleridge's 
Biographia Literaria, chaps. IV, V, XIV, XVII, XIX, XX, and 
XXII, are of great interest, the first in the hght it throws on 
Wordsworth's own experience, the second as explanatory of 
his theory of poetic material and diction. Perhaps the best 
essays on Wordsworth are those of Matthew Arnold {Essays 
in Criticism, Second Series); Sir Leslie Stephen {Hours in a 
Library, vol. I); and Walter Bagehot {Wordsworth, Tennyson 
and Browning; Literary Studies, vol. II) . Two poems addressed 
to Wordsworth (Watson: Wordsworth's Grave; and Shelley: 
Sonnet to Wordsworth) are interesting. 

COLERIDGE 

The Globe edition (Macmillan) of Coleridge's poems, in one 
volume, is the most convenient. Campbell's life {Samuel 
Taylor Coleridge: a Narrative of the Events of his Life) is the 
fullest biography. H. D. Traill's Coleridge, in the English 
Men of Letters, is not extremely successful, but is compact and 

Iv 



Ivi Descriptive Bibliography 

simple. Admirable sketches of the poet are to be found by 
Coleridge himself {Biographia Literaria, chap. X), by HazHtt 
{My First Acquaintance with Poets) and by Carlyle {Life of 
Sterling, chap. V). Lamb's essay {Christ's Hospital Five and 
Thirty Years Ago) should be read if possible. Essays by Walter 
Pater (in Appreciations), by J. R. Lowell, and by Swinburne 
(in Essays and Studies) are the best among a multitude. 



SHELLEY 

Of the works of Shelley, the most convenient editions are 
the Globe (Macmillan Company, i vol.) and the Cambridge 
(Houghton Mifflin Company, i vol.). The standard large 
edition is that of H. B. Forman, in eight volumes, with com- 
plete variorum readings. The standard biography is by Ed- 
ward Dowden, Life of Shelley. Shorter but more agreeable is 
J. A. Symonds' Shelley in English Men of Letters. The per- 
sonal recollections of T. J. Hogg {Life of Shelley) and of E. J. 
Trelawney {Recollections of Shelley and Byron) are more vivid 
and human than the later works. The Real Shelley by J. C. 
Jeafifreson is savage and untrustworthy, but expresses a point 
of view held by many. Among the critical essays upon Shel- 
ley the most readable are Bagehot's (in Literary Studies), 
Andrew Lang's (in Letters to Dead Authors), Matthew Arnold's 
(in Essays in Criticism, Second Series) and G. E. Woodberry's 
(in Makers of Literature) . Robert Browning has also an essay 
on Shelley valuable as a study of one great poet by another. 



KEATS 

The best edition of Keats's works is by H. B. Forman, in four 
volumes. The Globe edition is the best in one volume. Two 
good brief biographies are those of Colvin {English Men of 
Letters) and William Rossetti {Great Writers' Series). There 
is no such free and detailed biography as we have of Words- 



Descriptive Bibliography hii 

worth or Shelley. Neither are the essays in criticism of Keats 
so good as those on other poets. Arnold's (Essays in Criticism, 
Second Series) is hardly fair; Swinburne's (Miscellanies) is 
perhaps overdone; as good as any, possibly, is J. R. Lowell's 
(Prose Works, vol. I). Shelley's great Elegy (Adonais) is based 
on a misapprehension of the facts of Keats's illness. Leigh 
Hunt's memories of Keats (in Lord Byron and Some of his 
Contemporaries), and in his Autobiography are interesting but 
fragmentary and not altogether rehable. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 



POEMS OF WORDSWORTH 



THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN 

At the corner of Wood Street, when dayhght appears, 
Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: 
Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard 
In the silence of morning the song of the bird. 

'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees 5 

A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; 

Bright volumes of vapor through Lothbury glide. 

And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. 

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale 

Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail; 10 

And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, 

The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. 

She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, 

The mist and the river, the hill and the shade; 

The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, 15 

And the colors have all pass'd away from her eyes! 



SIMON LEE THE OLD HUNTSMAN 

In the sweet shire of Cardigan, 
Not far from pleasant Ivor Hall, 
An old man dwells, a little man, — ■ 
'T is said he once was tall. 
3 



William Wordsworth 

Full five-and-thirty years he lived s 

A running huntsman merry; 
And still the center of his cheek 
Is red as a ripe cherr3^ 

No man like him the horn could sound, 

And hill and valley rang with glee, lo 

When Echo bandied, round and round, 

The halloo of Simon Lee. 

In those proud days he little cared 

For husbandry or tillage; 

To blither tasks did Simon rouse 15 

The sleepers of the village. 

He all the country could outrun, 

Could leave both man and horse behind ; 

And often, ere the chase was done, 

He reel'd and was stone-blind. 20 

And still there 's something in the world 

At which his heart rejoices; 

For when the chiming hounds are out, 

He dearly loves their voices. 

But oh the heavy change! — bereft 25 

Of health, strength, friends and kindred, see! 

Old Simon to the world is left 

In liveried poverty: — 

His master 's dead, and no one now 

Dwells in the Hall of Ivor; 30 

Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; 

He is the sole survivor. 

And he is lean and he is sick. 

His body, dwindled and awry, 

Rests upon ankles swoln and thick; 35 

His legs are thin and dry. 



Simon Lee the Old Huntsman 5 

One prop he has, and only one, — 

His wife, an aged woman, 

Lives with him, near the waterfall, 

Upon the village common. 40 

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay. 

Not twenty paces from the door, 

A scrap of land they have, but they 

Are poorest of the poor. 

This scrap of land he from the heath 45 

Enclosed when he was stronger; 

But what to them avails the land 

Which he can till no longer? 

Oft, working by her husband's side, 

Ruth docs what Simon cannot do; 50 

For she, with scanty cause for pride, 

Is stouter of the two. 

And, though you with your utmost skill 

From labor could not wean them, 

'T is little, very Httle, all 55 

That they can do between them. 

Few months of life has he in store 

As he to you will tell. 

For still, the more he works, the moi ; 

Do his weak ankles swell. 60 

My gentle Reader, I perceive 

How patiently you Ve waited. 

And now I fear that you expect 

Some tale will be related. 

O Reader! had you in your mind 65 

Such stores as silent thought can bring, 
gentle Reader! you would find 
A tale in every thing. 



William Wordsworth 

What more I have to say is short, 

And you must kindly take it : 70 

It is no tale; but, should you think, 

Perhaps a tale you '11 make it. 

One summer-day I chanced to see 

This old Man doing all he could 

To unearth the root of an old tree, 75 

A stump of rotten wood. 

The mattock totter'd in his hand; 

So vain was his endeavor 

That at the root of the old tree 

He might have work'd for ever. 80 

You 're overtask'd, good Simon Lee, 

Give me your tool," to him I said; 

And at the word right gladly he 

Received my proffer'd aid. 

I struck, and with a single blow 85 

The tangled root I sever 'd, 

At which the poor old man so long 

And vainly had endeavor'd. 

The tears into his eyes were brought, 

And thanks and praises seem'd to run 90 

So fast out of his heart, I thought 

They never would have done. 

— I Ve heard of hearts unkind, kind deed 

With coldness still returning; 

Alas! the gratitude of men 95 

Hath oftener left me mourning. 



Lines Written in Early Spring 



LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING 

I HEARD a thousand blended notes 
While in a grove I sate reclined, 
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 
Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 

To her fair works did Nature Hnk 5 

The human soul that through me ran; 
And much it grieved my heart to think 
What Man has made of Man. 

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, 

The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths; 10 

And 't is my faith that every flower 

Enjoys the air it breathes. 

The birds around me hopp'd and play'd. 

Their thoughts I cannot measure, — 

But the least motion which they made 15 

It seem'd a thrill of pleasure. 

The budding twigs spread out their fan 

To catch the breezy air; 

And I must think, do all I can, 

That there was pleasure there. 20 

If this belief from heaven be sent, 
If such be Nature's holy plan. 
Have I not reason to lament 
What Man has made of Man? 



William Wordsworth 



THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS 

We walk'd along, while bright and red 
Uprose the morning sun; 
And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said 
' The will of God be done!" 

A village schoolmaster was he, 5 

With hair of glittering gray; 

As blithe a man as you could see 

On a spring holiday. 

And on that morning, through the grass 

And by the steaming rills 10 

We travel'd merrily, to pass 

A day among the hills. 

Our work," said I, " was well begun; 

Then, from thy breast what thought, 

Beneath so beautiful a sun, 15 

So sad a sigh has brought?" 

A second time did Matthew stop; 

And fixing still his eye 

Upon the eastern mountain-top, 

To me he made reply: 20 

■ Yon cloud with that long purple cleft 
Brings fresh into my mind 
A day like this, which I have left 
Full thirty years behind. 

' And just above yon slope of corn 25 

Such colors, and no other, 
Were in the sky that April morn, 
Of this the very brother. 



The Two April Mornings 9 

" With rod and line I sued the sport 
Which that sweet season gave, 30 

And to the churchyard come, stopp'd short 
Beside my daughter's grave. 

" Nine summers had she scarcely seen, 
The pride of all the vale; 

And then she sang, — she would have been 35 

A very nightingale. 

" Six feet in earth my Emma lay; 
And yet I loved her more — 
For so it seem'd, — than till that day 
I e'er had loved before. 40 

" And turning from her grave, I met, 
Beside the churchyard yew, 
A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet 
With points of morning dew. 

" A basket on her head she bare; 45 

Her brow was smooth and white : 
To see a child so very fair. 
It was a pure delight! 

'' No fountain from its rocky cave 
E'er tripped with foot so free ; 50 

She seem'd as happy as a wave 
That dances on the sea. 

" There came from me a sigh of pain 
Which I could ill confine; 

I look'd at her, and look'd again: 55 

And did not wish her mine!" 

— Matthew is in his grave, yet now 

Methinks I see him stand 

As at that moment, with a bough 

Of wilding in his hand. 60 



lO William Wordsworth 



THE FOUNTAIN 

A CONVERSATION 

We talk'd with open heart, and tongue 
Affectionate and true, 
A pair of friends, though I was young, 
And Matthew seventy-two. 

We lay beneath a spreading oak, $ 

Beside a mossy seat; 

And from the turf a fountain broke 

And gurgled at our feet. 

Now, Matthew!" said I, " let us match 

This water's pleasant tune lo 

With some old border-song, or catch 

That suits a summer's noon; 

Or of the church-clock and the chimes 

Sing here beneath the shade 

That half-mad thing of witty rimes 15 

Which you last April made!" 

In silence Matthew lay, and eyed 

The spring beneath the tree; 

And thus the dear old man replied, 

The gray-hair'd man of glee : 20 

No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears, 
How merrily it goes! 
'T will murmur on a thousand years 
And flow as now it flows. 



The Fountain il 

" And here, on this delightful day, 25 

I cannot choose but think 
How oft, a vigorous man, I lay 
Beside this fountain's brink. 

" My eyes are dim with childish tears. 
My heart is idly stirr'd, 30 

For the same sound is in my ears 
Which in those days I heard. 

" Thus fares it still in our decay: 
And yet the wiser mind 

Mourns less for what Age takes away, 35 

Than what it leaves behind. 

" The blackbird amid leafy trees. 
The lark above the hill. 
Let loose their carols when they please, 
Are quiet when they will. 40 

" With Nature never do they wage 
A fooHsh strife; they see 
A happy youth, and their old age 
Is beautiful and free: 

" But we are press'd by heavy laws; 45 

And often, glad no more. 
We wear a face of joy, because 
We have been glad of yore. 

" If there be one who need bemoan 
His kindred laid in earth, 50 

The household hearts that were his own, — 
It is the man of mirth. 



12 William Wordsworth 

" My days, my friend, are almost gone," 
My life has been approved, 

And many love me; but by none 55 

Am I enough beloved." 

" Now both himself and me he wrongs, 
The man who thus complains! 
I live and sing my idle songs 
Upon these happy plains: 60 

" And Matthew, for thy children dead 
r '11 be a son to thee! " 
At this he grasp'd my hand and said, 

" Alas! that cannot be." 

— We rose up from the fountain-side; 65 

And down the smooth descent 

Of the green sheep-track did we glide; 

And through the ^^•ood we went; 

And ere we came to Leonard's rock 

He sang those witty rimes 70 

About the crazy old church-clock, 

And the bewilder'd chimes. 



SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 

Beside the springs of Dove; 
A maid whom there were none to praise. 

And very few to love. 

A violet by a mossy stone 

Half-hidden from the eye! 
— Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky. 



The Education of Nature 13 

She lived unknown, and few could know 

When Lucy ceased to be; 10 

But she is in her grave, and oh, 
The difference to me! 



/ TRAVELD AMONG UNKNOWN MEN 

I travel'd among unknown men 

In lands beyond the sea; 
Nor, England! did I know till then 

What love I bore to thee. 

"r is past, that melancholy dream! 5 

Xor will I quit thy shore 
A second time; for still I seem 

To love thee more and more. 

Among thy mountains did I feel 

The joy of my desire; 10 

And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel 

Beside an English fire. 

Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd 

The bowers where Lucy play 'd ; 
And thine too is the last green field 15 

That Lucy's eyes survey'd. 



THE EDUCATION OF NATURE 

Three years she grew- in sun and shower; 

Then Nature said, " A lovelier flower 

On earth was never sown: 

This Child I to myself will take; 

She shall be mine, and I will make 

A lady of my own. 



14 William Wordsworth 

" Myself will to my darling be 
Both law and impulse: and with me 
The girl, in rock and plain, 

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, lO 

Shall feel an overseeing power 
To kindle or restrain. 



" She shall be sportive as the fawn 
That wild with glee across the lawn 
Or up the mountain springs; 15 

And her's shall be the breathing balm, 
And her's the silence and the calm 
Of mute insensate things. 

" The floating clouds their state shall lend 
To her; for her the willow bend; 20 

Nor shall she fail to see 
Ev'n in the motions of the storm 
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form 
By silent sympathy. 

" The stars of midnight shall be dear 25 

To her; and she shall lean her ear 
In many a secret place 
Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 
And beauty born of murmuring sound 
Shall pass into her face. 30 

" And vital feehngs of delight 
Shall rear her form to stately height, 
Her virgin bosom swell ; 
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
While she and I together live 35 

Here in this happy dell." 



Lucy Gray 15 

Thus Nature spake — The work was done — 

How soon my Lucy's race was run! 

She died, and left to me 

This heath, this calm and quiet scene; 40 

The memory of what has been, 

And never more will be. 



A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL 

A SLUMBER did my spirit seal; 

I had no human fears: 
She seem'd a thing that could not feel 

The touch of earthly years. 

No motion has she now, no force; 

She neither hears nor sees; 
RoU'd round in earth's diurnal course 

With rocks, and stones, and trees. 



LUCY GRAY 

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: 
And when I cross'd the wild, 
I chanced to see at break of day 
The solitary child. 

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; 
She dwelt on a wide moor. 
The sweetest thing that ever grew 
Beside a human door! 

You yet may spy the fawn at play, 
The hare upon the green; 
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 
Will never more be seen. 



i6 William Wordsworth 

" To-night will be a stormy nightT^ 
You to the town must go; 

And take a lantern, Child, to light 15 

Your mother through the snow." 

" That, Father! will I gladly do: 
'T is scarcely afternoon — 
The minster-clock has just struck two, 
And yonder is the moon!" 20 

At this the father raised his hook. 
And snapp'd a faggot-band; 
He plied his work; — and Lucy took 
The lantern in her hand. 

Not blither is the mountain roe: 25 

With many a wanton stroke 

Her feet disperse the powdery snow. 

That rises up like smoke. 

The storm came on before its time: 

She wander'd up and down; 30 

And many a hill did Lucy chmb: 

But never reach 'd the town. 

The wretched parents all that night 

Went shouting far and wide; 

But there was neither sound nor sight 35 

To serve them for a guide. 

At day-break on a hill they stood 

That overlooked the moor; 

And thence they saw the bridge of wood 

A furlong from their door. 40 



Lucy Gray 17 

They wept — and, turning homeward, cried 
In heaven we all shall meet!" 
— When in the snow the mother spied 
The print of Lucy's feet. 



Then downward from the steep hill's edge 45 

They track'd the footmarks small; 

And through the broken hawthorn hedge, 

And by the long stone wall: 

And then an open field they cross'd: 

The marks were still the same; 50 

They track'd them on, nor ever lost; 

And to the bridge they came: 

They followed from the snowy bank 

Those footmarks, one by one, 

Into the middle of the plank; 55 

And further there were none I 

— Yet some maintain that to this day 

She is a living child; 

That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 

Upon the lonesome wild. 60 

O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 
And never looks behind; 
And sing a solitary song 
That whistles in the wind. 



1 8 William Wordsworth 



RUTH: OR THE INFLUENCES OF NATURE 

When Ruth was left half desolate 

Her father took another mate; 

And Ruth, not seven years old, 

A slighted child, at her own will 

Went wandering over dale and hill, 5 

In thoughtless freedom, bold. 

And she had made a pipe of straw, 

And music from that pipe could draw 

Like sounds of winds and floods; 

Had built a bower upon the green, 10 

As if she from her birth had been 

An infant of the woods. 

Beneath her father's roof, alone 

She seem'd to live; her thoughts her own; 

Herself her own delight: 15 

Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay; 

And passing thus the live-long day. 

She grew to woman's height. 

There came a youth from Georgia's shore — 

A military casque he wore 20 

With splendid feathers drest; 

He brought them from the Cherokees; 

The feathers nodded in the breeze 

And made a gallant crest. 

From Indian blood you deem him sprung: 25 

But no! he spake the EngHsh tongue 

And bore a soldier's name; 

And, when America was free 

From battle and from jeopardy, 

He 'cross the ocean came. 30 



Ruth: or the Influences of Nature 19 

With hues of genius on his cheek, 

In finest tones the youth could speak: 

— While he was yet a boy 

The moon, the glory of the sun, 

And streams that murmur as they run 35 

Had been his dearest joy. 

He was a lovely youth! I guess 

The panther in the wilderness 

Was not so fair as he; 

And when he chose to sport and play, 40 

No dolphin ever was so gay 

Upon the tropic sea. 

Among the Indians he had fought ; 

And with him many tales he brought 

Of pleasure and of fear; 45 

Such tales as, told to any maid 

By such a youth, in the green shade. 

Were perilous to hear. 

He told of girls, a happy rout! 

Who quit their fold with dance and shout, 50 

Their pleasant Indian town, 

To gather strawberries all day long; 

Returning with a choral song 

When daylight is gone down. 

He spake of plants that hourly change 55 

Their blossoms, through a boundless range 

Of intermingling hues; 

With budding, fading, faded flowers. 

They stand the wonder of the bowers 

From morn to evening dews. 60 

He told of the magnolia, spread 
High as a cloud, high over head! 
The cypress and her spire; 



20 William Wordsworth 

— Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam 

Cover a hundred leagues, and seem 65 

To set the hills on fire. 

The youth of green savannahs spake, 

And many an endless, endless lake 

With all its fairy crowds 

Of islands, that together lie 70 

As quietly as spots of sky 

Among the evening clouds. 

" How pleasant," then he said, " it were 
A fisher or a hunter there, 

In sunshine or in shade 75 

To wander with an easy mind, 
And build a household fire, and find 
A home in every glade! 

" What days and what bright years! Ah me! 
Our life were life indeed, with thee 80 

So pass'd in quiet bliss; 
And all the while," said he, " to know 
That we were in a world of woe, 
On such an earth as this!" 

And then he sometimes interwove 85 

Fond thoughts about a father's love. 
" For there," said he, " are spun 
Around the heart such tender ties, 
That our own children to our eyes 
Are dearer than the sun. 90 

" Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me 
My helpmate in the woods to be. 
Our shed at night to rear; 



Ruth: or the Influences of Nature 



21 



Or run, my own adopted bride, 

A sylvan huntress at my side, 95 

And drive the flying deer! 

" Beloved Ruth!" — No more he said. 
The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed 
A solitary tear: 

She thought again — and did agree 100 

With him to sail across the sea, 
And drive the flying deer. 

" And now, as fitting is and right, 
We in the church our faith will plight, 
A husband and a wife." 105 

Even so they did; and I may say 
That to sweet Ruth that happy day 
Was more than human life. 

Through dream and vision did she sink, 

Delighted all the while to think 110 

That, on those lonesome floods 

And green savannahs, she should share 

His board with lawful joy, and bear 

His name in the wild woods. 

But, as you have before been told, 115 

This Striphng, sportive, gay, and bold, 

And with his dancing crest 

So beautiful, through savage lands 

Had roam'd about, with vagrant bands 

Of Indians in the West. 120 

The wind, the tempest roaring high. 
The tumult of a tropic sky 
Might well be dangerous food 



22 William Wordsworth 

For him, a youth to whom was given 

So much of earth — so much of heaven, 125 

And such impetuous blood. 

Whatever in those cHmes he found 

Irregular in sight and sound 

Did to his mind impart 

A kindred impulse, seem'd allied 130 

To his own powers, and justified 

The workings of his heart. 

Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought. 

The beauteous forms of Nature wrought, — 

Fair trees and gorgeous flowers; 135 

The breezes their own languor lent ; 

The stars had feelings, which they sent 

Into those favor'd bowers. 

Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween 

That sometimes there did intervene 140 

Pure hopes of high intent: 

For passions link'd to forms so fair 

And stately, needs must have their share 

Of noble sentiment. 

But ill he lived, much evil saw, 145 

With men to whom no better law 

Nor better Hfe was known ; 

Deliberately and undeceived 

Those wild men's vices he received. 

And gave them back his own. 150 

His genius and his moral frame 
Were thus impair'd, and he became 
The slave of low desires: 



Ruth: or the Influences of Nature 23 

A man who without self-control 

Would seek what the degraded soul 155 

Unworthily admires. 



And yet he with no feign'd delight 

Had woo'd the maiden, day and night 

Had loved her, night and morn ; 

What could he less than love a maid 160 

Whose heart with so much nature play'd — 

So kind and so forlorn? 

Sometimes most earnestly he said, 
" O Ruth! I have been worse than dead; 
False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain 165 

Encompass 'd me on every side 
When I, in confidence and pride, 
Had cross'd the Atlantic main. 

" Before me shone a glorious world 
Fresh as a banner bright, unfurj'd 170 

To music suddenly: 
I look'd upon those hills and plains. 
And seem'd as if let loose from chains 
To live at Hberty! 

" No more of this — for now, by thee, 175 

Dear Ruth! more happily set free. 
With nobler zeal I burn; 
My soul from darkness is released 
Like the whole sky when to the east 
The morning doth return." 180 

Full soon that better mind was gone; 
No hope, no wish remain'd, not one,— 
Thev stirr'd him now no more; 



24 William Wordsworth 

New objects did new pleasure give, 

And once again he wish'd to live 185 

As lawless as before. 



Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared, 

They for the voyage were prepared, 

And went to the sea-shore: 

But, when they thither came, the youth 190 

Deserted his poor bride, and Ruth 

Could never find him more. 

God help thee, Ruth! — Such pains she had 

That she in half a year was mad 

And in a prison housed; 195 

And there, with many a doleful song 

Made of wild words, her cup of wrong 

She fearfully caroused. 

Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, 

Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, 200 

Nor pastimes of the May, 

— They all were with her in her cell; 

And a clear brook with cheerful knell 

Did o'er the pebbles play. 

When Ruth three seasons thus had lain, 205 

There came a respite to her pain; 

She from her prison fled ; 

But of the Vagrant none took thought; 

And where it liked her best she sought 

Her shelter and her bread. 210 

Among the fields she breathed again : 
The master-current of her brain 
Ran permanent and free; 



Ruth: or the Influences of Nature 25 

And, coming to the banks of Tone, 
There did she rest; and dwell alone 
Under the greenwood tree. 



215 



The engines of her pain, the tools 

That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools, 

And airs that gently stir 

The vernal leaves — she loved them still. 220 

Nor ever tax'd them with the ill 

Which had been done to her. 

A barn her Winter bed supplies; 

But, till the warmth of Summer skies 

And Summer days is gone, 225 

(And all do in this tale agree) 

She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, 

And other home hath none. 

An innocent life, yet far astray I 

And Ruth will, long before her day, 230 

Be broken down and old. 

Sore aches she needs must have! but less 

Of mind, than body's wretchedness, 

From damp, and rain, and cold. 

If she is prest by want of food 235 

She from her dwelling in the wood 

Repairs to a road-side; 

And there she begs at one steep place 

Where up and down with easy pace 

The horsemen-travelers ride. 



240 



That oaten pipe of hers is mute 
Or thrown away: but with a flute 
Her loneliness she cheers; 



26 William Wordsworth 

This flute, made of a hemlock stalk, 

At evening in his homeward walk 245 

The Quantock woodman hears. 

I, too, have pass'd her on the hills 

Setting her little water-mills 

By spouts and fountains wild — 

Such small machinery as she turn'd 250 

Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn 'd, — 

A young and happy child! 

Farewell! and when thy days are told. 

Ill-fated Ruth! in hallow'd mould 

Thy corpse shall buried be ; 255 

For thee a funeral bell shall ring, 

And all the congregation sing 

A Christian psalm for thee. 



ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND, 1802 

Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea, 

One of the Mountains; each a mighty voice: 

In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, 

They were thy chosen music, Liberty! 

There came a tyrant, and with holy glee 

Thou fought'st against him, — but hast vainly striven: 

Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven, 

Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. 

— Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft; 

Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left — 

For, high-soul 'd Maid, what sorrow would it be 

That Mountain floods should thunder as before. 

And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore. 

And neither awful Voice be heard by Thee! 



London, 1802 27 



ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN 
REPUBLIC 

Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee 
And was the safeguard of the West; the worth 
Of Venice did not fall below her birth, 
Venice, the eldest child of Liberty. 
She was a maiden city, bright and free; 
No guile seduced, no force could violate; 
And when she took unto herself a mate, 
She must espouse the everlasting Sea. 
And what if she has seen those glories fade. 
Those titles vanish, and that strength decay, — 
Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid 
When her long life hath reach'd its final day: 
Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade 
Of that which once was great is pass'd away. 



LONDON, 1802 

Friend! I know not which way I must look 

For comfort, being, as I am, opprest 

To think that now our life is only drest 

For show; mean handy- work of craftsman, cook, 

Or groom! — We must run glittering like a brook 

In the open sunshine, or we are unblest; 

The wealthiest man among us is the best : 

No grandeur now in nature or in book 

Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense. 

This is idolatry; and these we adore: 

Plain living and high thinking are no more : 

The homely beauty of the good old cause 

Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence. 

And pure religion breathing household laws. 



28 William Wordsworth 



TO MILTON 



Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour: 

England hath need of thee: she is a fen 

Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, 

Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 

Have forfeited their ancient Enghsh dower 5 

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men: 

Oh! raise us up, return to us again; 

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 

Thy soul was hke a Star, and dwelt apart: 

Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea, 10 

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free; 

So didst thou travel on Hfe's common way 

In cheerful godHness; and yet thy heart 

The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 



WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN MEMORY 

When I have borne in memory what has tamed 

Great nations; how ennobling thoughts depart 

When men change swords for ledgers, and desert 

The student's bower for gold, — some fears unnamed 

I had, my Country! — am I to be blamed? 5 

Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art. 

Verily, in the bottom of my heart 

Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. 

For dearly must we prize thee; we who find 

In thee a bulwark for the cause of men; 10 

And I by my affection was beguiled: 

What wonder if a Poet now and then, 

Among the many movements of his mind, 

Felt for thee as a lover or a child! 



By the Sea 29 

UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE 
SEPTEMBER 3, 1802 

Earth has not anything to show more fair: 

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 

A sight so touching in its majesty: 

This City now doth like a garment wear 

The beauty of the morning: silent, bare, 5 

Ships, towers, domes, theaters, and temples lie 

Open unto the fields, and to the sky, — 

All bright and ghttering in the smokeless air. 

Never did sun more beautifully steep 

In his first splendor valley, rock, or hill; 10 

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! 

The river glideth at his own sweet will: 

Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; 

And all that mighty heart is lying still! 

BY THE SEA 

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free; 

The holy time is quiet a-s a Nun 

Breathless with adoration; the broad sun 

Is sinking down in its tranquillity; 

The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea : 5 

Listen! the mighty Being is awake, 

And doth with his eternal motion make 

A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 

Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here. 

If thou appear untouch'd by. solemn thought 10 

Thy nature is not therefore less divine: 

Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year 

And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine, 

God being with thee when we know it not. 



30 William Wordsworth 



TO THE DAISY 

With little here to do or see 

Of things that in the great world be, 

Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee 

For thou art worthy, 
Thou unassuming Common-place 
Of Nature, with that homely face, 
And yet with something of a grace 

Which Love makes for thee! 



Oft on the dappled turf at ease 

I sit and play with similes, lo 

Loose types of things through all degrees, 

Thoughts of thy raising; 
And many a fond and idle name 
I give to thee, for praise or blame 
As is the humor of the game, 15 

While I am gazing. 

A nun demure, of lowly port; 

Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court, 

In thy simplicity the sport 

Of all temptations; 20 

A queen in crown of rubies drest; 
A starveling in a scanty vest; 
Are all, as seems to suit thee best, 

Thy appellations. 

A little Cyclops, with one eye 25 

Staring to threaten and defy. 
That thought comes next — and instantly 
The freak is over, 



The Rainbow 31 

The shape will vanish, and behold! 
A silver shield with boss of gold 30 

That spreads itself, some faery bold 
In fight to cover. 



I see thee ghttering from afar — 
And then thou art a pretty star. 
Not quite so fair as many are 35 

In heaven above thee! 
Yet like a star with glittering crest, 
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest; — 
May peace come never to his nest 

Who shall reprove thee! 40 

Sweet Flower! for by that name at last 

When all my reveries are past 

I call thee, and to that cleave fast, 

Sweet silent Creature! 
That breath'st with me in sun and air, 45 

Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
My heart with gladness, and a share 
Of thy meek nature ! 



THE RAINBOW 

My heart leaps up when I behold 

A rainbow in the sky: 
So was it when my life began. 
So is it now I am a man. 
So be it when I shall grow old 

Or let me die! 
The Child is father of the Man: 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 



32 William Wordsworth 

COMPOSED AT NEW PATH CASTLE, THE 

PROPERTY OF LORD QUEENSBERRY 

1803 

Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy lord! 
Whom mere despite of heart could so far please 
And love of havoc, (for with such disease 
Fame taxes him,) that he could send forth word 
To level with the dust a noble horde, 
A brotherhood of venerable trees, 
Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these, 
Beggar'd and outraged! — Many hearts deplored 
The fate of those old trees; and oft with pain 
The traveler at this day will stop and gaze 
On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed: 
For sheltered places, bosoms, nooks, and bays, 
And the pure mountains, and the gentle weed, 
And the green silent pastures, yet remain. 



TO THE HIGHLAND GIRL OF INVERSNEYDE 

Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 

Of beauty is thy earthly dower! 

Twice seven consenting years have shed 

Their utmost bounty on thy head: 

And these gray rocks, that household lawn, 5 

Those trees — a veil just half withdrawn. 

This fall of water that doth make 

A murmur near the silent lake. 

This little bay, a quiet road 

That holds in shelter thy abode : 10 

In truth together ye do seem 

Like something fashion 'd in a dream; 



To the Highland Girl of Inversneyde 33 



15 



Such forms as from their covert peep 
When earthly cares are laid asleep! 
But O fair Creature! in the light 

common day, so heavenly bright 

1 bless Thee, Vision as thou art, 
I bless thee with a human heart: 
God shield thee to thy latest years! 

Thee neither know I nor thy peers: 20 

And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears. 

With earnest feeling I shall pray 

For thee when I am far away; 

For never saw I mien or face 

In which more plainly I could trace 25 

Benignity and home-bred sense 

Ripening in perfect innocence. 

Here scattered, hke a random seed, 

Remote from men. Thou dost not need 

The embarrass'd look of shy distress, 30 

And maidenly shamefacedness: 

Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear 

The freedom of a Mountaineer: 

A face with gladness overspread; 

Soft smiles, by human kindness bred; 35 

And seemhness complete, that sways 

Thy courtesies, about thee plays; 

With no restraint, but such as springs 

From quick and eager visi tings 

Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 40 

Of thy few words of EngHsli speech: 

A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife 

That gives thy gestures grace and life! 

So have I, not unmoved in mind, 

Seen birds of tempest-loving kind— 45 

Thus beating up against the wind. 



34 William Wordsworth 

What hand but would a garland cull 
For thee who art so beautiful? 

happy pleasure! here to dwell 

Beside thee in some healthy dell; 50 

Adopt your homely ways, and dress, 

A shepherd, thou a shepherdess! 

But I could frame a wish for thee 

More like a grave reahty: 

Thou art to me but as a wave 55 

Of the wild sea : and I would have 

Some claim upon thee, if I could. 

Though but of common neighborhood. 

What joy to hear thee, and to see! 

Thy elder brother I would be, 60 

Th}^ father — anything to thee. 

Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
Hath led me to this lonely place: 
Joy have I had; and going hence 

1 bear away my recompence. 65 
In spots like these it is we prize 

Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes: 

Then why should I be loth to stir? 

I feel this place was made for her; 

To give new pleasure like the past, 70 

Continued long as life shall last. 

Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart. 

Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part; 

For I, me thinks, till I grow old 

As fair before me shall behold 75 

As I do now, the cabin small, 

The lake, the bay, the waterfall; 

And Thee, the Spirit of them all! 



The Solitary Reaper 35 



THE SOLITARY REAPER 

Behold her, single in the field, 

Yon soHtary Highland Lass! 

Reaping and singing by herself; 

Stop here, or gently pass! 

Alone she cuts and binds the grain, 5 

And sings a melancholy strain; 

listen ! for the vale profound 
Is overflowing with the sound. 

No nightingale did ever chaunt 

More welcome notes to weary bands 10 

Of travelers in some shady haunt. 

Among Arabian sands: 

A voice so thriUing ne'er was heard 

In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird 

Breaking the silence of the seas 15 

Among the farthest Hebrides. 

Will no one tell me what she sings? 

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 

For old, unhappy, far-off things, 

And battles long ago : 20 

Or is it some more humble lay, 

Famihar matter of to-day? 

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, 

That has been, and may be again! 

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang 25 

As if her song could have no ending; 

1 saw her singing at her work. 
And o'er the sickle bending; — 



36 William Wordsworth 

I listen'd, motionless and still; 

And, as I mounted up the hill, 30 

The music in my heart I bore 

Long after it was heard no more. 



GLEN-ALMAIN, THE NARROW GLEN 

In this still place, remote from men, 

Sleeps Ossian, in the Narrow Glen; 

In this still place, where murmurs on 

But one meek streamlet, only one: 

He sang of battles, and the breath 5 

Of stormy war, and violent death; 

And should, methinks, when all was past, 

Have rightfully been laid at last 

Where rocks were rudely heap'd, and rent 

As by a spirit turbulent; 10 

Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild, 

And everything unreconciled; 

In some complaining, dim retreat. 

For fear and melancholy meet; 

But this is calm; there cannot be 15 

A more entire tranquillity. 

Does then the Bard sleep here indeed? 
Or is it but a groundless creed? 
What matters it? — I blame them not 
Whose fancy in this lonely spot 20 

Was moved; and in such way express'd 
Their notion of its perfect rest. 
A convent, even a hermit's cell. 
Would break the silence of this Dell : 
It is not quiet, is not ease; 25 

But something deeper far than these: 



The Green Linnet 37 

The separation that is here 

Is of the grave; and of austere 

Yet happy feehngs of the dead: 

And, therefore, was it rightly said 30 

That Ossian, last of all his race! . 

Lies buried in this lonely place. 



THE GREEN LINNET 

Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed 

Their snow-white blossoms on my head, 

With brightest sunshine round me spread 

Of Spring's unclouded weather, 

In this sequester'd nook how sweet 5 

To sit upon my orchard-seat! 

And flowers and birds once more to greet. 

My last year's friends together. 

One have I mark'd, the happiest guest 

In all this covert of the blest: 10 

Hail to Thee, far above the rest 

In joy of voice and pinion! 

Thou, Linnet! in thy green array 

Presiding Spirit here to-day 

Dost lead the revels of the May; i5 

And this is thy dominion. 

While birds, and butterflies, and flowers. 

Make all one band of paramours. 

Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, 

Art sole in thy employment; 20 

A Life, a Presence like the air, 

Scattering thy gladness without care. 

Too blest with any one to pair; 

Thyself thy own enjoyment. 



38 William Wordsworth 

Amid yon tuft of hazel trees 25 

That twinkle to the gusty breeze, 

Behold him perch'd in ecstasies 

Yet seeming still to hover; 

There! where the flutter of his wings 

Upon his back and body flings 30 

Shadows and sunny glimmerings, 

That cover him all over. 

My dazzled sight he oft deceives — 

A brother of the dancing leaves; 

Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves 35 

Pours forth his song in gushes; 

As if by that exulting strain 

He mock'd and treated with disdain 

The voiceless Form he chose to feign, 

While fluttering in the bushes. 40 



SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT 

She was a Phantom of dehght 

When first she gleam'd upon my sight; 

A lovely Apparition, sent 

To be a moment's ornament; 

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; 5 

Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; 

But all things else about her drawn 

From May-time and the cheerful dawn; 

A dancing shape, an image gay, 

To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 10 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A Spirit, yet a Woman too! 

Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgin-liberty; 



A Lesson 39 

A countenance in which did meet 15 

Sweet records, promises as sweet; 

A creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food, 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles. 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 20 

And now I see with eye serene 

The very pulse of the machine; 

A being breathing thoughtful breath, 

A traveler between life and death: 

The reason firm, the temperate will, 25 

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; 

A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd 

To warn, to comfort, and command; 

And yet a Spirit still, and bright 

With something of an angel-light. 30 



A LESSON 

There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine, 
That shrinks like many more from cold and rain, 
And the first moment that the sun may shine, 
Bright as the sun himself, 't is out again! 

When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm, 5 
Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest, 
Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm 
In close self-shelter, hke a thing at rest. 

But lately, one rough day, this Flower I past, 

And recognized it. though an alter'd form, 10 

Now standing forth an offering to the blast. 

And buffeted at will bv rain and storm. 



40 William Wordsworth 

I stopp'd and said, with inly-mutter'd voice, 
" It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold 
This neither is its courage nor its choice, 15 

But its necessity in being old. 

"The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew; 
It cannot help itself in its decay; 
Stiff in its members, wither'd, changed of hue," — 
And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray. 20 

To be a prodigal's favorite — then, worse truth, 
A miser's pensioner — behold our lot ! 
O Man! that from thy fair and shining youth 
Age might but take the things Youth needed not ! 



THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET 

Where art thou, my beloved Son, 

Where art thou, worse to me than dead? 

Oh find me, prosperous or undone! 

Or if the grave be now thy bed. 

Why am I ignorant of the same 5 

That I may rest; and neither blame 

Nor sorrow may attend thy name? 

Seven years, alas! to have received 

No tidings of an only child — 

To have despair'd, have hoped, beHeved, 10 

And been for evermore beguiled, — 

Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss! 

I catch at them, and then I miss; 

Was ever darkness like to this? 

He was among the prime in worth, 15 

An object beauteous to behold; 

Well born, well bred; I sent him forth 



The Affliction of Margaret 41 

Ingenuous, innocent, and bold: 

If things ensued that wanted grace 

As hath been said, they were not base; 20 

And never blush was on my face. 

Ah! little doth the young-one dream 

When full of play and childish cares, 

What power is in his wildest scream 

Heard by his mother unawares! 25 

He knows it not, he cannot guess; 

Years to a mother bring distress; 

But do not make her love the less. 

Neglect me! no, I suffer'd long 

From that ill thought; and being blind 30 

Said " Pride shall help me in my wrong: 

Kind mother have I been, as kind 

As ever breathed:" and that is true; 

I 've wet my path with tears like dew. 

Weeping for him when no one knew. 35 

My Son, if thou be humbled, poor. 

Hopeless of honor and of gain. 

Oh! do not dread thy mother's door; 

Think not of me with grief and pain: 

I now can see with better eyes; 40 

And worldly grandeur I despise 

And fortune with her gifts and lies. 

Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings. 

And blasts of heaven will aid their flight; 

They mount — how short a voyage brings 45 

The wanderers back to their delight! 

Chains tie us down by land and sea; 

And wishes, vain as mine, may be 

All that is left to comfort thee. 



42 William Wordsworth 

Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan 50 

Maim'd, mangled by inhuman men; 

Or thou upon a desert thrown 

Inheritest the lion's den; 

Or hast been summon'd to the deep 

Thou, thou, and all thy mates, to keep 55 

An incommunicable sleep. 

I look for ghosts: but none will force 

Their way to me; 't is falsely said 

That there was ever intercourse 

Between the living and the dead; 60 

For surely then I should have sight 

Of him I wait for day and night 

With love and longings infinite. 

My apprehensions come in crowds 

I dread the rusthng of the grass; 65 

The very shadows of the clouds 

Have power to shake me as they pass: 

I question things, and do not find 

One that will answer to my mind; 

And all the world appears unkind. 70 

Beyond participation he 

My troubles, and beyond relief: 

If any chance to heave a sigh 

They pity me, and not my grief. 

Then come to me, my Son, or send 75 

Some tidings that my woes may end! 

I have no other earthly friend. 



To the Cuckoo 43 



TO THE CUCKOO 

BLITHE new-comer! I have heard, 

1 hear thee and rejoice: 

Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, 
Or but a wandering Voice? 

While I am lying on the grass 5 

Thy twofold shout I hear; 
From hill to hill it seems to pass, 
At once far off and near. 

Though babbling only to the vale 

Of sunshine and of flowers, 10 

Thou bringest unto me a tale 

Of visionary hours. 

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! 

Even yet thou art to me 

No bird, but an invisible thing, 15 

A voice, a mystery; 

The same whom in my school-boy days 

1 listen'd to; that Cry 

Which made me look a thousand ways 

In bush, and tree, and sky. 20 

To seek thee did I often rove 
Through woods and on the green; 
And thou wert still a hope, a love; 
Still long'd for, never seen! 

And I can listen to thee yet; 25 

Can lie upon the plain 
And listen, till I do beget 
That golden time again. 



44 William Wordsworth 

blessed Bird! the earth we pace 

Again appears to be 30 

An unsubstantial, faery place, 

That is fit home for Thee ! 



THE DAFFODILS 

I wander'd lonely as a cloud 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 

When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host of golden daffodils, 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 5 

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 

And twinkle on the milky way, 

They stretch'd in never-ending line 

Along the margin of a bay: 10 

Ten thousand saw I at a glance 

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced, but they 

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: — 

A Poet could not but be gay 1 5 

In such a jocund company! 

I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought; 

For oft, when on my couch I He 

In vacant or in pensive mood, 20 

They flash upon that inward eye 

Which is the bhss of solitude; 

And then my heart with pleasure fills, 

And dances with the daffodils. 



Ode to Duty 45 



ODE TO DUTY 

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God! 
O Duty! if that name thou love 
Who art a light to guide, a rod 
To check the erring, and reprove; 

Thou who art victory and law 5 

When empty terrors overawe: 
From vain temptations dost set free, 
And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity! 

There are who ask not if thine eye 

Be on them; who, in love and truth 10 

Where no misgiving is, rely 
Upon the genial sense of youth: 
Glad hearts! without reproach or blot, 
Who do thy work, and know it not: 

Oh! if through confidence misplaced 15 

They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them 
cast. 

Serene will be our days and bright 
And happy will our nature be 
When love is an unerring light, 

And joy its own security, 20 

And they a blissful course may hold 
Ev'n now, who, not unwisely bold, 
Live in the spirit of this creed ; 
Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need. 

I, loving freedom, and untried, 25 

No sport of every random gust, 

Yet being to myself a guide, 

Too blindly have reposed my trust: 



46 William Wordsworth 

And oft, when in my heart was heard 

Thy timely mandate, I deferr'd 30 

The task, in smoother walks to stray; 
But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. 

Through no disturbance of my soul 
Or strong compunction in me wrought, 
I supplicate for thy control, 35 

But in the quietness of thought: 
Me this uncharter'd freedom tires; 
I feel the weight of chance-desires: 
My hopes no more must change their name ; 
I long for a repose that ever is the same. 40 

Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear 
The Godhead's most benignant grace; 
Nor know we anything so fair 
As is the smile upon thy face: 

Flowers laugh before thee on their beds, . 45 

And fragrance in thy footing treads; 
Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong; 
And the most ancient Heavens, through Thee, are fresh and 
strong. 

To humbler functions, awful Power! 

I call thee: I myself commend 50 

Unto thy guidance from this hour; 
Oh let my weakness have an end! 
Give unto me, made lowly wise, 
The spirit of self-sacrifice; 

The confidence of reason give; 55 

And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live. 



Nature and the Poet 47 



TO THE SKYLARK 

Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! 
Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? 
Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? 
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, 
Those quivering wings composed, that music still! 

To the last point of vision, and beyond 

Mount, daring warbler! — that love-prompted strain 

— 'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond — 

Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain: 

Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing 

All independent of the leafy Spring. 

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; 

A privacy of glorious Hght is thine, 

Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood 

Of harmony, with instinct more divine; 

Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam — 

True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home. 



NATURE AND THE POET 

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OP PEELE CASTLE IN A STORM, 
PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT 

I WAS thy neighbor once, thou rugged Pile ! 
Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee: 
I saw thee every day; and all the while 
Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea. 



48 William Wordsworth 

So pure the sky, so quiet was the air! 
So like, so very hke, was day to day! 
Whene'er I look'd, thy image still was there; 
It trembled, but it never pass'd away. 



How perfect was the calm! It seem'd no sleep, 

No mood, which season takes away, or brings: 10 

I could have fancied that the mighty Deep 

Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. 

Ah! then — if mine had been the painter's hand 
To express what then I saw ; and add the gleam 
The light that never was on sea or land, 15 

The consecration, and the Poet's dream, — 

I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile, 

Amid a world how different from this! 

Beside a sea that could not cease to smile; 

On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 20 

Thou shouldst have seem'd a treasure-house divine 
Of peaceful years; a chronicle of heaven; — 
Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine 
The very sweetest had to thee been giver. 

A picture had it been of lasting ease, 25 

Elysian quiet, without toil or strife; 

No motion but the moving tide; a breeze; 

Or merely silent Nature's breathing Ufe. 

Such, in the fond illusion of my heart. 

Such picture would I at that time have made; 30 

And seen the soul of truth in every part, 

A steadfast peace that might not be betray'd. 



Nature and the Poet 49 

So once it would have been, — 't is so no more; 

I have submitted to a new control: 

A power is gone, which nothing can restore; 35 

A deep distress hath humanized my soul. 

Not for a moment could I now behold 

A smiling sea, and be what I have been: 

The feehng of my loss will ne'er be old; 

This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. 40 



Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the friend 

If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore, 

This work of thine I blame not, but commend; 

This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 

'tis a passionate work! — yet wise and well, 45 
Well chosen is the spirit that is here; 

That hulk which labors in the deadly swell, 
This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear! 

And this huge Castle, standing here sublime, 

1 love to see the look with which it braves, 50 
— Cased in the unfeeling armor of old time — 

The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves. 

— Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone 

Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind! 

Such happiness, wherever it be known, 55 

Is to be pitied; for 't is surely Wind. 

But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer. 

And frequent sights of what is to be borne! 

Such sights, or worse, as are before me here: — 

Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. 60 



50 William Wordsworth 



ADMONITION TO A TRAVELER 

Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye! 

— The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook 

Hath stirr'd thee deeply; with its own dear brook. 

Its own small pasture, almost its own sky! 

But covet not the abode; forbear to sigh 5 

As many do, repining while they look; 

Intruders — who would tear from Nature's book 

This precious leaf with harsh impiety. 

— Think what the home must be if it were thine, 

Even thine, though few thy wants! — Roof, window, door, 10 

The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, 

The roses to the porch which they entwine: 

Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day 

On which it should be touch'd, would melt away! 



TO SLEEP 

A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by 

One after one; the sound of rain, and bees 

Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas. 

Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky; 

I 've thought of all by turns, and yet do lie 5 

Sleepless; and soon the small bird's melodies 

Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees, 

And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. 

Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, 

And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth: 10 

So do not let me wear tonight away: 

Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth? 

Come, blessed barrier between day and day, 

Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health! 



Ode on Intimations of Immortality 51 



THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US 

The World is too much with us; late and soon, 

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; 

Little we see in Nature that is ours; 

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 

This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon, 5 

The winds that will be howling at all hours 

And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowTrs, 

For this, for every thing, we are out of tune; 

It moves us not. — Great God! I 'd rather be 

A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn, — 10 

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 

Have ghmpses that would make me less forlorn; 

Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; 

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 



ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM 
RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD 



There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream. 
The earth, and every common sight 
To me did seem 
Apparel'd in celestial light, 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — 
Turn wheresoe'er I may, 
By night or day, 
The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 



The rainbow comes and goes. 
And lovely is the rose; 
The moon doth with delight 



52 William Wordsworth 

Look round her when the heavens are bare; 
Waters on a starry night 

Are beautiful and fair; 15 

The sunshine is a glorious birth; 
But yet I know, where'er I go, 
That there hath past away a glory from the earth. 



m 

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song. 

And while the young lambs bound 20 

As to the tabor's sound. 
To me alone there came a thought of grief: 
A timely utterance gave that thought rehef, 

And I again am strong. 
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; — 25 
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong: 
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, 
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 
And all the earth is gay; 

Land and sea 30 

Give themselves up to jollity. 

And with the heart of May 
Doth every beast keep holiday; — 
Thou child of joy 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 

Shepherd-boy! 35 

IV 

Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; 
My heart is at your festival, 

My head hath its coronal, 40 

The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. 
Oh evil day! if I were sullen 



Ode on Intimations of Immortality 53 

While Earth herself is adorning 
This sweet May-morning; 
And the children are culHng 45 

On every side 
In a thousand valleys far and wide, 
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm 
And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm: — 

I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! 50 

— But there 's a tree, of many, one, 
A single field which I have look'd upon, 
Both of them speak of something that is gone: 
The pansy at my feet 
Doth the same tale repeat: 55 

Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 



Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; 
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 

Hath had elsewhere its setting 60 

And cometh from afar; 
Not in entire forgetfulness. 
And not in utter nakedness, 
But trailing clouds of glory we do come 

From God, who is our home: 65 

Heaven hes about us in our infancy! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing Boy, 
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, 

He sees it in his joy; 70 

The Youth, who daily farther from the east 
Must travel, still is Nature's priest, 
And by the vision splendid 
Is on his way attended ; 
At length the Man perceives it die away, 75 

And fade into the light of common day. 



54 William Wordsworth 

VI 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; 
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 
And, even with something of a mother's mind 

And no unworthy aim, 80 

The homely nurse doth all she can 
To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man, 

Forget the glories he hath known 
And that imperial palace whence he came. 

VII 

Behold the Child among his new -born blisses, 85 

A six years' darling of a pigmy size ! 

See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 

Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 

With light upon him from his father's eyes! 

See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 90 

Some fragment from his dream of human life, 

Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; 

A wedding or a festival, 

A mourning or a funeral; 

And this hath now his heart. 95 

And unto this he frames his song: 
Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife; 

But it will not be long 

Ere this be thrown aside, 100 

And with new joy and pride 
The httle actor cons another part; 
Fining from time to time his " humorous stage" 
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
That life brings with her in her equipage; 105 

As if his whole vocation 

Were endless imitation. 



Ode on Intimations of Immortality 55 

VIII 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth behe 

Thy soul's immensity; 
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep 1 10 

Thy heritage, thou eye among the bhnd, 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
Haunted for ever by the eternal Mind, — 

Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! 

On whom those truths do rest 1 1 5 

Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; 
Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
Broods hke the day, a master o'er a slave, 
A Presence which is not to be put by; 120 

Thou Httle child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height. 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 125 

Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! 



O joy! that in our embers 

Is something that doth live, 130 

That Nature yet remembers 

What was so fugitive! 
The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
Perpetual benediction: not indeed 

For that which is most worthy to be blest, 135 

Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: — 



56 William Wordsworth 

— Not for these I raise 

The song of thanks and praise; 140 

But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things, 
Fallings from us, vanishings; 
Blank misgivings of a creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized, 145 

High instincts, before which our mortal nature 
Did tremble hke a guilty thing surprised: 
But for those first affections, 
Those shadowy recollections. 

Which, be they what they may, 150 

Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, 
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, 155 

To perish never; 
Which neither Hstlessness, nor mad endeavor, 

Nor man nor boy 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
Can utterly abolish or destroy! 160 

Hence, in a season of calm weather 
Though inland far we be, 
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
Which brought us hither; 
Can in a moment travel thither — 165 

And see the children sport upon the shore, 
And hear the mighty waters rolhng evermore. 



Then, sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! 
And let the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound! 170 

We, in thought, will join your throng 
Ye that pipe and ye that play, 



Ode on Intimations of Immortality 57 

Ye that through your hearts to-day 

Feel the gladness of the May! 
What though the radiance which was once so bright 175 
Be now for ever taken from my sight, 

Though nothing can bring back the hour 
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; 

We will grieve not, rather find 

Strength in what remains behind; 180 

In the primal sympathy 

Which having been must ever be; 

In the soothing thoughts that spring 

Out of human suffering; 

In the faith that looks through death, 185 

In years that bring the philosophic mind. 

XI 

And 0, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 

Forbode not any severing of our loves! 

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 

I only have relinquish'd one delight 190 

To live beneath your more habitual sway: 

I love the brooks which down their channels fret 

Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they; 

The innocent brightness of a new-born day 

Is lovely yet; 195 

The clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober coloring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 200 

Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 



58 William Wordsworth 

YARROW UNVISITED 

1803 

From Stirling Castle we had seen 
The mazy Forth unravel'd, 
Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay, 
And with the Tweed had travel'd ; 
And when we came to Cloven ford, 5 

Then said my " winsome Marrow," 
" Whate'er betide, we '11 turn aside, 
And see the Braes of Yarrow." 

"Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, 
Who have been buying, selling, 10 

Go back to Yarrow, 't is their own, 
Each maiden to her dwelling! 
On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, 
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow; 
But we will downward with the Tweed, 15 

Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 

"There 's Gala Water, Leader Haughs, 
Both lying right before us; 
And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed 
The lintwhites sing in chorus; 20 

There 's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land 
Made blithe with plough and harrow : 
Why throw away a needful day 
To go in search of Yarrow? 

"What 's Yarrow but a river bare 25 

That glides the dark hills under? 
There are a thousand such elsewhere 
As worthy of your wonder," 



Yarrow Unvisited 59 

— Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn; 
My True-love sigh'd for sorrow, 30 

And look'd me in the face, to think 
I thus could speak of Yarrow! 

"O green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms, 
And sweet is Yarrow flowing! 

Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, 35 

But we will leave it growing. 
O'er hilly path and open strath 
We '11 wander Scotland thorough; 
But, though so near, we will not turn 
Into the dale of Yarrow. 40 

"Let beeves and home-bred kine partake 
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow; 
The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake 
Float double, swan and shadow! 

We will not see them ; will not go 45 

To-day, nor yet to-morrow; 
Enough if in our hearts we know 
There 's such a place as Yarrow. 

"Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown! 
It must, or we shall rue it: 50 

We have a vision of our own, 
Ah! why should we undo it? 
The treasured dreams of times long past. 
We '11 keep them, winsome Marrow! 
For when we 're there, although 't is fair 55 

'T will be another Yarrow! 

" If Care with freezing years should come 
And wandering seem but folly, — 
Should we be loth to stir from home, 
And yet be melancholy; 60 



6o William Wordsworth 

Should life be dull, and spirits low, 
'T will soothe us in our sorrow 
That earth has something yet to show, 
The bonnv holms of Yarrow!" 



YARROW VISITED 

SEPTEMBER, 1814 

And is this — Yarrow? — This the stream 

Of which my fancy cherish'd 

So faithfully, a waking dream. 

An image that hath perish'd? 

O that some minstrel's harp were near 5 

To utter notes of gladness 

And chase this silence from the air, 

That fills my heart with sadness! 

Yet why? — a silvery current flows 

With uncontroll'd meanderings; lo 

Nor have these eyes by greener hills 

Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 

And, through her depths. Saint Mary's Lake 

Is visibly delighted ; 

For not a feature of those hills 15 

Is in the mirror slighted. 

A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale, 

Save where that pearly whiteness 

Is round the rising sun diffused, 

A tender hazy brightness; 20 

Mild dawn of promise! that excludes 

All profitless dejection; 

Though not unwilling here to admit 

A pensive recollection. 



Yarrow Visited 6i 

Where was it that the famous Flower 25 

Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding? 

His bed perchance was yon smooth mound 

On which the herd is feeding: 

And haply from this crystal pool, 

Now peaceful as the morning, 30 

The Water-wraith ascended thrice, 

And gave his doleful warning. 

Delicious is the lay that sings 

The haunts of happy lovers, 

The path that leads them to the grove, 35 

The leafy grove that covers: 

And pity sanctifies the verse 

That paints, by strength of sorrow. 

The unconquerable strength of love; 

Bear witness, rueful Yarrow! .« 

40 

But thou that didst appear so fair 

To fond imagination, 

Dost rival in the light of day 

Her dehcate creation: 

Meek lovehness is round thee spread, 

A softness still and holy: 

The grace of forest charms decay'd, 

And pastoral melancholy. 



45 



50 



That region left, the vale unfolds 

Rich groves of lofty stature. 

With Yarrow winding through the pomp 

Of cultivated nature; 

And rising from those lofty groves 

Behold a ruin hoary, 

The shatter'd front of Newark's towers, 55 

Renown'd in Border story. 



62 William Wordsworth 

Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, 

For sportive youth to stray in, 

For manhood to enjoy his strength, 

And age to wear away in ! 60 

Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, 

A covert for protection 

Of tender thoughts that nestle there — 

The brood of chaste affection. 

How sweet on this autumnal day 65 

The wild-wood fruits to gather, 

And on my True-love's forehead plant 

A crest of blooming heather! 

And what if I en wreathed my own? 

'T were no offence to reason; 70 

The sober hills thus deck their brows 

To meet the wintry season. 

I see — but not by sight alone, 

Loved Yarrow, have I won thee; 

A ray of Fancy still survives — 75 

Her sunshine plays upon thee! 

Thy ever-youthful waters keep 

A course of lively pleasure; 

And gladsome notes my lips can breathe 

Accordant to the measure. 80 

The vapors linger round the heights. 

They melt, and soon must vanish; 

One hour is theirs, nor more is mine — 

Sad thought! which I would banish, 

But that I know, where'er I go, 85 

Thy genuine image, Yarrow! 

Will dwell with me, to heighten joy, 

And cheer my mind in sorrow. 



Within King's College Chapel, Cambridge 63 



DESIDERIA 

Surprised by joy — impatient as the wind — 

I turn'd to share the transport — Oh! with whom 

But Thee — deep buried in the silent tomb, 

That spot which no vicissitude can find? 

Love, faithful love recall'd thee to my mind — 

But how could I forget thee? Through what power 

Even for the least division of an hour 

Have I been so beguiled as to be blind 

To my most grievous loss! — That thought's return 

Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore 

Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, 

Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more; 

That neither present time, nor years unborn 

Could to my sight that heavenly face restore. 



WITHIN KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE 

Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense. 

With ill-match'd aims the Architect who plann'd 

(Albeit laboring for a scanty band 

Of white-robed Scholars only) this immense 

And glorious work of fine intelligence! 5 

— ^Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore 

Of nicely-calculated less or more: — 

So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense 

These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof 

Self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells 10 

Where light and shade repose, where music dwells 

Lingering — and wandering on as loth to die; 

Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof 

That they were born for immortality. 



64 William Wordsworth 



THE T ROSACES 

There 's not a nook within this solemn Pass, 

But were an apt confessional for One 

Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, 

That Life is but a tale of morning grass 

Wither'd at eve. From scenes of art which chase 5 

That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes 

Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities. 

Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass 

Untouch'd, unbreathed upon: — Thrice happy quest, 

If from a golden perch of aspen spray 10 

(October's workmanship to rival May), 

The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast 

That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, 

LulHng the year, with all its cares, to rest! 



THE INNER VISION 

Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 

To pace the ground, if path be there or none, 

While a fair region round the traveler lies 

Which he forbears again to look upon; 

Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene. 

The work of Fancy, or some happy tone 

Of meditation, slipping in between 

The beauty coming and the beauty gone. 

— If Thought and Love desert us, from that day 

Let us break off all commerce with the Muse: 

With Thought and Love companions of our way — 

Whate'er the senses take or may refuse, — 

The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews 

Of inspiration on the humblest lay. 



To a Distant Friend 65 



TO A DISTANT FRIEND 

Why art thou silent! Is thy love a plant 

Of such weak fiber that the treacherous air 

Of absence withers what was once so fair? 

Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant? 

Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant, 

Bound to thy service with unceasing care — 

The mind's least generous wish a mendicant 

For nought but what thy happiness could spare. 

Speak! — though this soft warm heart, once free to hold 

A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, 

Be left more desolate, more dreary cold 

Than a forsaken bird's-nest fill'd with snow 

'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine — 

Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know! 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 




Samuel Taylor Coleridge 



POEMS OF COLERIDGE 



KUBLA KHAN 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 
A stately pleasure-dome decree: 
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 
Through caverns measureless to man 

Down to a sunless sea. 5 

So twice five miles of fertile ground 
With walls and towers were girdled round: 
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills 
Where blossom 'd many an incense-bearing tree; 
And here were forests ancient as the hills, lo 

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted 
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! 
A savage place! as holy and enchanted 
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 15 

By woman wailing for her demon-lover! 
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, 
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, 
A mighty fountain momently was forced: 
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst 20 

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, 
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: 
And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever 
It flung up momently the sacred river. 
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 25 

Through wood and dale the sacred river ran. 
Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man, 
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean : 
69 



yo Samuel Taylor Coleridge 

And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 
Ancestral voices prophesying war! 30 

The shadow of the dome of pleasure 

Floated midway on the waves; 

Where was heard the mingled measure 

From the fountain and the caves. 
It was a miracle of rare device, 35 

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! 

A damsel with a dulcimer 

In a vision once I saw: 

It was an Abyssinian maid, 

And on her dulcimer she play'd, 40 

Singing of Mount Abora. 

Could I revive within mc 

Her symphony and song, 
To such a deep delight 'twould win me 
That with music loud and long, 45 

I would build that dome in air, 
That sunny dome! those caves of ice! 
And all who heard should see them there, 
And all should cry, Beware! Beware! 
His flashing eyes, his floating hair! 50 

Weave a circle round him thrice. 
And close your eyes with holy dread 
For he on honey-dew hath fed. 
And drunk the milk of Paradise. 



The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 



71 



THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 



PART THE FIRST 



It is an ancient Mariner, 

And he stoppeth one of three. 

By thy long gray beard and ghttering eye, 
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? 



The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, 

And I am next of kin; 
The guests are met, the feast is set: 

May'st hear the merry din." 



Ill 



He holds him with his skinny hand, 
"There was a ship," quoth he. 
Hold off! unhand me, gray-beard loon! 
Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 



10 



He holds him with his glittering eye- 
The Wedding-Guest stood still. 

And Hstens like a three years' child 
The Mariner hath his will. 



15 



The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone : 
He cannot choose but hear; 

And thus spake on that ancient man. 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 



20 



72 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge 



VI 



''The ship was cheered, the harbor cleared, 
Merrily did we drop 
Below the kirk, below the hill, 
Below the lighthouse top. 



The Mar- 
iner tells 
how the 
ship sailed 
southward 
with a good 
wind and 
fair weather 
till it 

reached the 
Line 



\^II 



The sun came up upon the left. 

Out of the sea came he! 
And he shone bright, and on the right 

Went down into the sea. 



25 



\iii 



■ Higher and higher every day. 
Till over the mast at noon — " 

The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast. 
For he heard the loud bassoon. 



30 



The Wed- 
ding-Guest 
heareth the 
bridal 
music; but 
the Mariner 
continueth 
his tale 



IX 



The bride hath paced into the hall, 

Red as a rose is she; 
Nodding their heads before her goes 

The merrv minstrelsv. 



35 



The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, 
Yet he cannot choose but hear; 

And thus spake on that ancient man. 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 



40 



XI 



The ship 
drawn by 
storm to- 
ward the 
south pole 



And now the Storm-Blast came, and he 

Was tyrannous and strong: 
He struck with his o'ertaking wings. 

And chased us south along. 



The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 73 



"With sloping masts and dipping prow, 45 

As who pursued with yell and blow 

Still treads the shadow of his foe, 
And forward bends his head, 

The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, 

And southward aye we fled. 50' 

XIII 

"And now there came both mist and snow, 
And it grew wondrous cold : 
And ice, mast-high, came floating by, 
As green as emerald. 

The land of XIV 

fearful "And through the drifts the snowy clifts 55 

Did send a dismal sheen: 



sound 
where no 



living thinK >sor shapes of men nor beasts we ken- 
was to be T., . ill. 

1 he ice was all between. 



seen 



XV 

"The ice was here, the ice was there, 

The ice was all around : 60 

It cracked and growled, and roared and howled. 
Like noises in a swound! 



Till a great 
sea-bird, 
called the 
Albatross, 
came 
through the 



XVI 

'At length did cross an Albatross: 
Thorough the fog it came; 
snow-fog! As if it had been a Christian soul, 65 

SveTwith We hailed it in God's name. 

great joy 

and hospi- XVII 



tality 



"It ate the food it ne'er had eat, 
And round and round it flew. 
The ice did split with a thunder-fit ; 

The helmsman steered us through! 70 



74 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge 



And lo! the 
Albatross 
proveth a 
bird of good 
omen, and 
followeth 
the ship as 
it returned 
northward, 
through fog 
and floating 
ice 



XVIII 

And a good south wind sprung up behind; 

The Albatross did follow, 
And every day, for food or play, 

Came to the mariners' hollo! 



XIX 

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 

It perched for vespers nine; 
Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, 

Glimmered the white moon-shine." 



75 



XX 



The ancient 
Mariner 
inhospita- 
bly killeth 
the pious 
bird of good 
omen 



"God save thee, ancient Mariner! 

From the fiends, that plague thee thus! — 
Why look'st thou so?" — ''With my cross-bow 
I shot the Albatross." 



80 



PART THE SECOND 



XXI 

The Sun now rose upon the right: 
Out of the sea came he, 

Still hid in mist, and on the left 
Went down into the sea. 



85 



XXII 



And the good south wind still blew behind, 

But no sweet bird did follow. 
Nor any day, for food or play, 

Came to the mariners' hollo! 



90 



The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 



75 



His ship- 
mates cry 
out against 
the ancient 
Mariner, 
for killing 
the bird of 
good luck 



XXIII 

And I had done a hellish thing, 
And it would work 'em woe: 

For all averred, I had killed the bird 
That made the breeze to blow. 

Ah, wretch!' said they, 'the bird to slay, 
That made the breeze to blow!' 



95 



But when 
the fog 
cleared off, 
they justify 
the same, 
and thus 
make them- 
selves ac- 
complices 
in the crime 

The fair 
breeze con- 
tinues; the 
ship enters 
the Pacific 
Ocean and 
sails north- 
ward, even 
till it 

reaches the 
Line 



xxi\- 
'Nor dim nor red, like God's own head. 

The glorious Sun uprist: 
Then all averred, I had killed the bird 

That brought the fog and mist. loo 

"Twas right,' said they, 'such birds to slay, 

That bring the fog and mist.' 



xxv 
"The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, 
The furrow followed free: 
We were the first that ever burst 105 

Into that silent sea. 



The ship 
hath been 
suddenly 
becalmed 



xxvi 



Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 

'T was sad as sad could be; 
And we did speak only to break 

The silence of the sea! no 



XX vn 



"All in a hot and copper sky. 
The bloody Sun, at noon. 
Right up above the mast did stand, 
No bigger than the Moon. 



76 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge 



And the 
Albatross 
begins to be 
avenged 



XXMII 

"Day after day, day after day, 

We stuck, nor breath nor motion: 
As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 

XXIX 

"Water, water, everywhere, 

And all the boards did shrink; 
Water, water, everywhere. 
Nor any drop to drink. 



115 



XXX 

"The very deep did rot: O Christ! 
That ever this should be! 
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
Upon the sHmy sea. 

XXXI 

"About, about, in reel and rout 
The death-fires danced at night; 
The water, like a witch's oils, 

Burnt green, and blue, and white. 



XXXII 

"And some in dreams assured were 
Of the spirit that plagued us so: 
Nine fathom deep he had followed us 
From the land of mist and snow. 



125 



[30 



A spirit had 
followed 
them; one 
of the in- 
visible in- 
habitants of 
this planet, 
neither de- 
parted souls nor angels; concerning whom the learned Jew Josephus, and the Platonic 
Constantinopolitan, Michael Psellus, may be consulted. They are very numerous, 
and there is no climate or element without one or more 



XXXIII 



"And every tongue, through utter drought. 
Was withered at the root; 
We could not speak, no more than if 
We had been choked with soot. 



135 



The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 



11 



The ship- 
mates in 
their sore 
distress 
would fain 
throw the 
whole guilt 
on the ancient Mariner; in sign 



XXXIV 

' Ah ! well-a-day ! what evil looks 

Had I from old and young! 140 

Instead of the cross, the Albatross 
About my neck was hung. 

hereof they hang the dead sea-bird round his neck 



PART THE THIRD 



The ancient 
Mariner be- 
holdeth a 
sign in the - 
element 
afar off 



XXXV 

There passed a weary time. Each throat 

Was parched, and glazed each eye. 
A weary time! a weary time! 145 

How glazed each weary eye! 
When looking westward, I beheld 

A something in the sky. 

XXXVI 

'At first it seemed a httle speck, 

And then it seemed a mist: 150 

It moved, and moved, and took at last 
A certain shape, I wist. 



XXXVII 



At its 
nearer ap- 
proach, it 
seemeth 
him to be 
ship; and 
at a dear 
ransom 
he freeth 
his speech 
from the 
bonds of 
thirst 



A .speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! 

And still it neared and neared: 
As if it dodged a water-sprite. 

It plunged and tacked and veered. 



15s 



XXXVIII 

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 

We could nor laugh nor wail; 
Through utter drought all dumb we stood! 
I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 160 

And cried, A sail! a sail! 



78 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge 



A flash of 
joy 



XXXIX 

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 

Agape they heard me call: 
Gramercy! they for joy did grin, 
And all at once their breath drew in, 165 

As they were drinking all. 



XL 

And horror "See! See! (I cried) she tacks no more! 
can°k be a Hither to work us weal, — 

ship that Without a breeze, without a tide, 

comes on- ' 

ward with- She Steadies with upright keel ! 

out wind or 
tide? 



170 



XLI 

The western wave was all a-flame. 
The day was well-nigh done! 

Almost upon the western wave 
Rested the broad bright Sun; 

When that strange shape drove suddenly 
Betwixt us and the Sun. 



175 



It seemeth 
him but the 
skeleton of 
a ship 



XLII 



"And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, 
(Heaven's Mother send us grace!) 
As if through a dungeon-grate he peered, 
With broad and burning face. 



180 



XLIII 



"Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud,) 
How fast she nears and nears! 
Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, 
Like restless gossameres? 



The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 



79 



XLIV 



Are those her ribs through which the Sun 
Did peer, as through a grate? 

And is that Woman all her crew? 

Is that a Death? and are there two? 
Is Death that Woman's mate? 



And its ribs 
are seen as 
bars on the 
face of the 
setting Sun. 
The Spec- 
ter-Woman 
and her 
Death- 
mate, and no other on board the skeleton ship 



185 



Like vessel, 
like crew! ' 



Death and 
Life-in- 
Death have 
diced for 
the ship's 
crew, and 
she (the 
latter) win- 
neth the 
ancient 
Mariner 



No twilight 
within the 
courts of 
the Sun 



At the ris- 
ing of the 
Moon. 



XLV 

"Her lips were red, her looks were free, 190 

Her- locks were yellow as gold : 
Her skin was as white as leprosy. 
The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she, 

Who thicks man's blood with cold. 

XLVI 

"The naked hulk alongside came, 195 

And the twain were casting dice; 
'The game is done! I 've won! I 've won!' 

Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 

XLVII 

"The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out: 

At one stride comes the dark; 200 

With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, 
Off shot the specter-bark. 

XL VIII 

"We listened and looked sideways up! 
Fear at my heart, as at a cup, 

My life-blood seemed to sip ! 205 

The stars were dim, and thick the night. 
The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white; 

From the sails the dew did drip — 
Till clomb above the eastern bar 
The horned Moon, with one bright star 210 

Within the nether tip. 



8o 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge 



One after 
another. 



XLIX 



One after one, by the star-dogged Moon. 

Toe quick for groan or sigh, 
Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, 

And cursed me with his eye. 



215 



His ship- 
mates drop 
down dead 



But Life- 
in-Death 
begins her 
work on the 
ancient 
Mariner 



Four times fifty Hving men, 

(And I heard nor sigh nor groan) 

With heavy thump, a Hfeless lump, 
They dropped down one by one. 



LI 



The souls did from their bodies fly. — 

They fled to bliss or woe I 
And every soul, it passed me by. 

Like the whizz of my cross-bow!" 



PART THE FOURTH 



The Wed- 
ding-Guest 
feareth 
that a 
Spirit is 
talking to 
him: 



But the an- 
cient Mar- 
iner assureth 
him of his 
bodily life, 
and pro- 
ceedeth to 
relate his 
horrible 
penance 



I fear thee, ancient Mariner! 

I fear thy skinny hand ! 
And thou art long, and lank, and brown. 

As is the ribbed sea-sand. 



225 



LIII 



I fear thee and thy glittering eye, 
And thy skinny hand, so brown." — 

Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest! 
This body dropt not down. 



230 



LIV 



Alone, alone, all, all alone, 
Alone on a wide wide sea! 

And never a saint took pity on 
My soul in agony. 



235 



The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 8i 



LV 

He despis- "The many men, so beautiful! 
creatures And they all dead did lie: 

of the calm ^j^^ ^ thousand thousand slimy things 
Lived on; and so did I. 

LVI 

And envi- "I lookcd uDon the rotting sea, 24.0 

eth that » , , & ' ■* 

they should And drew my eyes away: 
man/fie '" ^ ^^^^ed upon the rotting deck, 
dead And there the dead men lay. 

Lvn 
''I looked to Heaven and tried to pray; 

But or ever a prayer had gusht 245 

A wicked whisper came, and made 
My heart as dry as dust. 

L\'ni 
"I closed my Hds, and kept them close, 
And the bails like pulses beat; 
For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky 250 
Lay like a load on my weary eye. 
And the dead were at my feet. 

LIX 

But the "The cold sweat melted from their limbs, 

for himTn^ Nor rot nor reek did they: 

the eye of The look with which they looked on me 2 s n 

the dead ^t 1 , 

men Had never passed away. 

LX 

"An orphan's curse would drag to Hell 

A spirit from on high; 
But oh! more horrible than that 

Is a curse in a dead man's eye! 260 

Seven days, seven nights, 1 saw that curse, 

And yet I could not die. 



82 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge 



In his lone- 
liness and 
fixedness he 
yearneth 
towards the 
journeying 
Mc 



LXI 

' The moving Moon went up the sky, 

And nowhere did abide: 
Softly she was going up, 

And a star or two beside — ■ 



LXII 

Her beams bemocked the sultry main, 

Like April hoar-frost spread; 
But where the ship's huge shadow lay, 
The charmed water burnt alway 
A still and awful red. 



26 = 



loon, and 
the stars 
that still 
sojourn, yet 
still move 
onward; 
and every- 
where the 
blue sky be- 
longs to 
them, and is 
their ap- 
pointed rest 
and their 

native country and their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced, 
lords that are certainly expected and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival 



270 



By the light 
of the Moon 
he behold- 
eth God's 
creatures of 
the great 
calm 



LXIII 

"Beyond the shadow of the ship, 
I watched the water-snakes: 
They moved in tracks of shining white. 
And when they reared, the elfish light 
Fell ofif in hoary flakes. 



275 



LXIV 

"Within the shadow of the ship 
I watched their rich attire: 
Blue, glossy green, and velvet black. 
They coiled and swam; and every track 
Was a flash of golden fire. 



280 



Their 

beauty and 
their happi- 
ness 



He blesseth 
them in his 
heart 



LXV 

"O happy living things! no tongue 
Their beauty might declare : 

A spring of love gushed from my heart. 
And I blessed them unaware! 

Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 
And I blessed them unaware! 



28s 



The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 



83 



The spell 
begins to 
break 



LXVI 



'The selfsame moment I could pray; 

And from my neck so free 
The Albatross fell off, and sank 

Like lead into the sea. 



290 



PART THE FIFTH 



LXVII 

^Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing, 

Beloved from pole to pole! 
To Mary Queen the praise be given! 
She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, 

That sHd into my soul. 



295 



LXVIII 



By grace of 
the holy 
Mother, the 
ancient 
Mariner is 
refreshed 
with rain 



The silly buckets on the deck. 

That had so long remained, 
I dreamt that they were filled with dew; 

And when I awoke, it rained. 



300 



LXIX 



'My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 
My garments all were dank ; 

Sure I had drunken in my dreams, 
And still my body drank. 



LXX 



"I moved, and could not feel my limbs. 
I was so light — almost 
I thought that I had died in sleep, 
And was a blessed ghost. 



305 



84 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge 



He heareth 
sounds, 
and seeth 
strange 
sights and 
commo- 
tions in the 
sky and the 
element 



LXXI 

And soon 1 heard a roaring wind: 

It did not come anear; 
But with its sound it shook the sails 

That were so thin and sere. 

LXXII 

The upper air burst into Hfe! 

And a hundred fire-flags sheen, 
To and fro they were hurried about; 
And to and fro, and in and out, 

The wan stars danced between. 



310 



31S 



LXXIII 

And the coming wind did roar more loud, 

And the sails did sigh like sedge; 319 

And the rain poured down from one black cloud; 
The Moon was at its edge. 

LXXIV 

The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 

The Moon was at its side: 
Like waters shot from some high crag, 
The lightning fell with never a jag, 325 

A river steep and wide. 



LXXV 

of the^shfp's ''The loud wind never reached the ship, 
crew are Yet now the ship moved on ! 

inspired, ^. 

and the Beneath the lightnmg and the Moon 

ship moves ^j^^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^ ^ ^^^^^^ 

LXXVI 

"They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, 
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes; 
It had been strange, even in a dream. 
To have seen those dead men rise. 



330 



The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 



85 



LXX\1I 

'The helmsman steered, the ship moved on; 335 

Yet never a breeze up-blew; 
The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, 

Where they were wont to do; 
They raised their limbs hke Hfeless tools — 

We were a ghastly crew. 340 



But not by 
the souls of 
the men, 
nor by 
demons of 
earth or ' 
middle air. 
but by a 
blessed 
troop of an- 
gelic spirits, 
sent down 
by the invo- 
cation of 
the guardian 
saint 



LXXVIII 

The body of my brother's son 
Stood by me, knee to knee: 

The body and I pulled at one rope, 
But he said naught to me." 



LXXIX 

I fear thee, ancient Mariner!" 
"Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest! 
'T was not those souls that fled in pain. 
Which to their corses came again. 
But a troop of spirits blest: 



345 



For when it dawned — they dropped their arms 

And clustered round the mast ; 
Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths. 

And from their bodies passed. 



350 



LXXXI 

Around, around, flew each sweet sound. 

Then darted to the Sun; 
Slowly the sounds came back again, 

Now mixed, now one by one. 



355 



86 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge 



LXXXII 

' Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 

I heard the sky-lark sing; 
Sometimes all little birds that are, 
How they seemed to fill the sea and air 

With their sweet jargoning! 



360 



LXXXIII 

And now 't was like all instruments, 

Now like a lonely flute; 
And now it is an angel's song, 

That makes the heavens be mute. 



365 



LXXXIV 

"It ceased; yet still the sails made on 
A pleasant noise till noon, 

A noise like of a hidden brook 
In the leafy month of June, 

That to the sleeping woods all night 
Singeth a quiet tune. 



370 



LXXX\' 



The lone- 
some Spirit 
from the 
south-pole 
carries on 
the ship as 
far as the 
Line, in 
obedience 
to the an- 
gelic troop, 
but still re- 
quireth ven- 
geance 



Till noon we quietly sailed on. 
Yet never a breeze did breathe: 

Slowly and smoothly went the ship 
Moved onward from beneath. 



LXXXVI 

"Under the keel nine fathom deep. 
From the land of mist and snow, 

The spirit slid : and it was he 
That made the ship to go. 

The sails at noon left off their tune, 
And the ship stood still also. 



375 



380 



The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 87 

LXXXVII 

"The sun, right up above the mast, 

Had fixed her to the ocean : 
But in a minute she 'gan stir, 385 

With a short uneasy motion — 
Backwards and forwards half her length 

With a short uneasy motion, 

LXXXVIII 

"Then like a pawing horse let go, 

She made a sudden bound; 390 

It flung the blood into my head, 
And I fell down in a swound. 

LXXXIX 

"How long in that same fit I lay, 
I have not to declare; 
But ere my living life returned, 395 

I heard and in my soul discerned 
The Polar f^o voices in the air. 

Spint s fel- 
low-demons, YP 
the invisible ^^ 

ouhede-*' '"Is it he?' quoth one, 'Is this the man? 

ment, take By him who died on cross, 

wrong; and With his cruel bow he laid full low, 400 

Sate!ol!r ^^^ harmless Albatross. 

to the other 

that pen- ^^^ 

aS^he^^ '"The spirit who bideth by himself 

for the an- j^ the land of mist and snow, 

iner hath He loved the bird that loved the man 

corded^to Who shot him with his bow.' 405 

the Polar 

Spirit, who XCII 

southward "The Other was a softer voice, 
As soft as honey-dew: 
Quoth he. 'The man hath penance done, 
And penance more will do.' 



88 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge 



PART THE SIXTH 



XCIII 
FIRST VOICE 



But tell me, tell me! speak again, 
Thy soft response renewing — 

What makes that ship drive on so fast? 
What is the Ocean doing?' 



410 



The Mari- 
iner hath 
been cast 
into a 
trance; for 
the angelic 
power caus- 
eth the ves- 
sel to drive 
northward 
faster than 
human life 
could en- 
dure 



XCIV 
SECOND VOICE 



' Still as a slave before his lord, 

The Ocean hath no blast; 
His great bright eye most silently 

Up to the Moon is cast — 

xcv 
'If he may know which way to go; 

For she guides him smooth or grim 
See, brother, see! how graciously 
She looketh down on him.' 

xcvi 

FIRST VOICE 

'But why drives on that ship so fast 
Without or wave or wind? ' 

SECOND VOICE 

'The air is cut away before. 
And closes from behind. 

XVCII 

'Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high! 

Or we shall be belated: 
For slow and slow that ship will go. 
When the Mariner's trance is abated.' 



415 



420 



42s 



The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 



89 



The super- 
natural 
motion is 
retarded; 
the Mariner 
awakes, and 
his penance 
begins 
anew 



XCVIII 

'I woke, and we were sailing on 430 

As in a gentle weather: 
'Twas night, calm night, the Moon was high; 
The dead men stood together. 

XCIX 

All stood together on the deck, 

For a charnel-dungeon fitter: 435 

All fixed on me their stony eyes 

That in the Moon did gHtter. 



The pang, the curse, with which they died, 

Had never passed .away : 
I could not draw my eyes from theirs, 

Nor turn them up to pray. 



440 



The curse 
is finally 
expiated 



CI 

''And now this spell was snapt: once more 
I viewed the Ocean green, 
And looked far forth, yet little saw 
Of what had else been seen — 

CII 

''Like one that on a lonesome road 
Doth walk in fear and dread. 
And having once turned round, walks on, 

And turns no more his head; 

Because he knows a frightful fiend 

Doth close behind him tread. 



445 



450 



cm 



But soon there breathed a wind on me, 
Nor sound nor motion made : 

Its path was not upon the sea, 
In ripple or in shade. 



455 



90 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge 



CIV 



"It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek 
Like a meadow-gale of spring — 
It mingled strangely with my fears, 
Yet it felt Hke a welcoming. 



cv 



"Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, 
Yet she sailed softly too: 
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze- 
On me alone it blew. 



460 



And the 
ancient 
Mariner be- 
holdeth his 
native 
country 



CVI 



Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed 
The light-house top I see? 

Is this the hill? is this the kirk? 
Is this mine own countree? 



465 



CVII 

'We drifted o'er the harbor-bar, 
And I with sobs did pray — 

'O let me be awake, my God! 
Or let me sleep alway.' 



470 



C\III 



"The harbor-bay was clear as glass, 
So smoothly it was strewn ! 
And on the bay the moonlight lay, 
And the shadow of the Moon. 



475 



cix 



"The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, 
That stands above the rock : 
The moonlight steeped in silentness 
The steady weathercock. 



The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 



The angelic 
spirits leave 
the dead 
bodies, 



CX 



"And the bay was white with silent Hght, 
Till rising from the same, 
Full many shapes, that shadows were, 
In crimson colors came. 



91 

480 



CXI 

A little distance from the prow 
Those crimson shadows were: 

I turned my eyes upon the deck — 
Oh, Christ I what saw I there! 



485 



And appear 
in their own 
forms of 
light 



CXII 



"Each corse lay flat, hfeless and flat, 
And, by the holy rood! 
A man all light, a seraph -man. 
On every corse there stood. 



490 



CXIII 



"This seraph-band, each waved his hand: 
It was a heavenly sight! 
They stood as signals to the land, 
Each one a lovely light ; 



495 



CXIV 



This seraph-band, each waved his hand; 

No voice did they impart — 
No voice; but oh! the silence sank 

Like music on my heart. 



cx\' 



"But soon I heard the dash of oars, 
I heard the Pilot's cheer; 
My head was turned perforce away, 
And I saw a boat appear. 



500 



92 Samuel Taylor Coleridge 



cxvi 
"The Pilot, and the Pilot's boy 

I heard them coming fast: 505 

Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy 
The dead men could not blast. 

CXVII 

" I saw a third — I heard his voice: 

It is the Hermit good! 
He singeth loud his godly hymns 510 

That he makes in the wood. 
He '11 shrieve my soul, he '11 wash away 

The Albatross's blood. 



PART THE SEVENTH 



CXVIII 



The Hermit "This Hermit good lives in that wood 



of the wood 



Which slopes. down to the sea: 515 

How loudly his sweet voice he rears! 
He loves to talk with marineres 

That come from a far countree. 



" He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve — 

He hath a cushion plump: 520 

It is the moss that wholly hides 
The rotted old oak-stump. 

cxx 
"The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk, 
'Why this is strange, I trow! 
Where are those lights so many and fair, 525 

That signal made but now?' 



The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 93 

cxxi 
Approach- '"Strange, by my faith!' the Hermit said — 
withwon-'^ 'And they answered not our cheer! 
^" The planks look warped! and see those sails 

How thin they are and sere! 530 

I never saw aught like to them, 
Unless perchance it were 



CXXII 

"'Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 

My forest-brook along; 
When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 535 

And the owlet whoops to the wolf below 

That eats the she-wolf's young.' 



CXXIII 

"'Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look ' — 
(The Pilot made reply) 
'I am a-feared' — 'Push on, push on!' 540 

Said the Hermit cheerily. 



cxxiv 
The boat came closer to the ship. 

But I nor spake nor stirred; 
The boat came close beneath the ship, 

And straight a sound was heard. 545 



cxxv 
The ship "Under the water it rumbled on, 
sinketh Still louder and more dread: 

It reached the ship, it split the bay; 
The ship went down like lead. 



Pilot's boat 



94 Samuel Taylor Coleridge 

cxxvi 
MarinerT*^ "Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, 550 

saved in the Which skv and ocean smote, 

Like one that hath been seven days drowned 

My body lay afloat; 
But swift as dreams, myself I found 

Within the Pilot's boat. 555 



CXXVII 

"Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, 
The boat spun round and round: 
And all was still, save that the hill 
Was telling of the sound. 

CXXVIII 

"I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked 560 

And fell down in a fit; 
The Holy Hermit raised his eyes 
And prayed where he did sit. 

CXXIX 

"I took the oars: the Pilot's boy, 

Who now doth crazy go, 565 

Laughed loud and long, and all the while 

His eyes went to and fro. 
'Ha! ha!' quoth he, 'full plain I see, 
The Devil knows how to row.' 



CXXX 

"And now, all in my own countree, 570 

I stood on the firm land! 
The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, 
And scarcely he could stand. 



The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 



95 



The ancient 
Mariner 
earnestly 
entreateth 
the Hermit 
to shrieve 
him; and 
the penance 
of life falls 
on him 



And ever 
and anon 
throughout 
his future 
life an 
agony con- 
straineth 
him to 
travel from 
land to 
land 



CXXXI 

"'O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!' 
The Hermit crossed his brow, 
'Say quick,' quoth he, 'I bid thee say — 
What manner of man art thou? ' 

CXXXII 

''Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched 
With a woful agony. 
Which forced me to begin my tale: 
And then it left me free. 

CXXXIII 

"Since then, at an uncertain hour, 
That agony returns; 
And till my ghastly tale is told. 
This heart within me burns. 

cxxxiv 
"I pass, like night, from land to land; 
I have strange power of speech ; 
That moment that his face I see, 
I know the man that must hear me: 
To him my tale I teach. 

cxxxv 

"What loud uproar bursts from that door! 

The Wedding-Guests are there: 
But in the garden-bower the bride 

And bride-maids singing are; 
And hark the little vesper bell. 

Which biddeth me to prayer! 

cxxxvi 
"0 Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been 
Alone on a wide wide sea: 
So lonely 't was, that God himself 
Scarce seemed there to be. 



575 



S8o 



S8S 



S90 



595 



6oo 



96 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge 



CXXXVII 

O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 

'T is sweeter far to me, 
To walk together to the kirk . 

With a goodly company! — 



CXXXVIII 

To walk together to the kirk, 

And all together pray. 
While each to his great Father bends, 
Old men, and babes, and loving friends, 

And youths and maidens gay! 



605 



And to 
teach, by 
his own ex- 
ample, love 
ana rever- 
ence to all 
things that 
God made 
and loveth 



CXXXIX 

"Farewell, farewell! but this I tell 

To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! 

He prayeth well, who loveth well 

Both man and bird and beast. 

CXL 

"He prayeth best, who loveth best 
All things both great and small; 
For the dear God who loveth us, 
He made and loveth all." 



610 



615 



CXLI 



The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 
Whose beard with age is hoar. 

Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest 
Turned from the bridegroom's door. 



620 



CXLII 

He went like one that hath been stunned, 

And is of sense forlorn : 
A sadder and a wiser man, 

He rose the morrow morn. 



625 



Love 



LOVE 



97 



All thoughts, all passions, all dehghls. 
Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
All are but ministers of Love, 
And feed his sacred flame. 

Oft in my waking dreams do I 5 

Live o'er again that happy hour, 
When midway on the mount I lay, 
Beside the ruin'd tower. 

The moonshine stealing o'er the scene 
Had blended with the lights of eve; 10 

And she was there, my hope, my joy. 
My own dear Genevieve! 

She lean'd against the armed man. 
The statue of the armed knight; 
She stood and listen'd to my lay, 15 

Amid the lingering light. 

Few sorrows hath she of her own, 
My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! 
She loves me best, whene'er I sing 

The songs that make her grieve. 20 

I play'd a soft and doleful air, 
I sang an old and moving story — 
An old rude song, that suited well 
That ruin wild and hoary. 

She listen'd with a flitting blush, 25 

With dow'ncast eyes and modest grace; 
For well she knew, I could not choose 
But gaze upon her face. 



98 Samuel Taylor Coleridge 

I told her of the Knight that wore 
Upon his shield a burning brand; 30 

And that for ten long years he woo'd 
The Ladv of the Land. 



I told her how he pined: and ah! 
The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
With which I sang another's love 35 

Interpreted my own. 

She listen'd with a flitting blush. 
With downcast eyes, and modest grace; 
And she forgave me, that I gazed 

Too fondly on her face! 40 

But when I told the cruel scorn 
That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, 
And that he cross'd the mountain-woods, 
Nor rested day nor night; 

That sometimes from the savage den, 45 

And sometimes from the darksome shade, 
And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and sunny glade, — 

There came and look'd him in the face 
An angel beautiful and bright; 50 

And that he knew it was a Fiend. 
This miserable Knight! 

And that unknowing what he did, 
He leap'd amid a murderous band. 
And saved from outrage worse than death 55 

The Lady of the Land; — 



Love 99 

And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees; . 
And how she tended him in vain — 
And ever strove to expiate 

The scorn that crazed his brain; — 60 



And that she nursed him in a cave, 
And how his madness went away, 
When on the yellow forest-leaves 
A dying man he lay; — 

His dying words — but when I reach'd 65 

That tenderest strain of all the ditty, 
My faltering voice and pausing harp 
Disturb'd her soul with pity! 

All impulses of soul and sense 

Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve; 70 

The music and the doleful tale, 
The rich and balmy eve; 

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 
An undistinguishable throng. 

And gentle wishes long subdued, 75 

Subdued and cherish'd long! 

She wept with pity and delight, 

She blush'd with love, and virgin shame; 

And like the murmur of a dream, 

I heard her breathe my name. 80 

Her bosom heaved — she stepp'd aside, 
As conscious of my look she stept — 
Then suddenly, with timorous eye 
She fled to me and wept. 



oo Samuel Taylor Coleridge 

^ She half inclosed me with her arms. 85 

She press'd me with a meek embrace; 
And bending back her head, look'd up, 
And gazed upon my face. 

'T was partly love, and partly fear, 
And partly 't was a bashful art 90 

That I might rather feel, than see, 
The swelling of her heart. 

I calm'd her fears, and she was calm, 
And told her love with virgin pride; 
And so I won my Genevieve, 95 

My bright and beauteous Bride. 



YOUTH AND AGE 

Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying, 
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee — 
Both were mine! Life went a-maying 
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, 

When I was young! 5 

When I was young? — Ah, woful When! 
Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then! 
This breathing house not built with hands, 
This body that does me grievous wrong, 
O'er aery cHffs and gHttering sands 10 

How lightly then it flash'd along: 
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, 
On winding lakes and rivers wide. 
That ask no aid of sail or oar. 

That fear no spite of wind or tide! 15 

Nought cared this body for wind or weather 
When youth and I lived in 't together. 



Youth and Age loi 

Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like; 
Friendship is a sheltering tree; 
0! the joys, that came down shower-like, 20 

Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, 

Ere I was old ! 
Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere, 
Which tells me, Youth 's no longer here! 

Youth! for years so many and sweet, 25 
'Tis known that Thou and I were one, 

1 '11 think it but a fond conceit — 
It cannot be, that Thou art gone! 
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd : — 

And thou wert aye a masker bold ! 30 

What strange disguise hast now put on 

To make believe that Thou art gone? 

I see these locks in silvery slips, 

This drooping gait, this alter'd size: 

But Springtide blossoms on thy lips, 35 

And tears take sunshine from thine eyes! 

Life is but Thought: so think I will 

That Youth and I are house-mates still. 

Dew-drops are the gems of morning, 
But the tears of mournful eve ! 40 

Where no hope is, hfe 's a warning 
That only serves to make us grieve 

When we are old: 
— That only serves to make us grieve 
With oft and tedious taking-leave, 45 

Like some poor nigh-related guest 
That may not rudely be dismist. 
Yet hath out-stay'd his welcome while, 
And tells the jest without the smile. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 




Percy Bysshe Shelley 
After the portrait by Miss Curran 



POEMS OF SHELLEY 



OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT 

I MET a traveler from an antique land 
Who said : Two vast and trunkless legs of stone 
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand, 
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage hes, whose frown 
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command 5 

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read 
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these Hfeless things, 
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed; 
And on the pedestal these words appear: 
'*My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: 10 

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" 
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay 
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, 
The lone and level sands stretch far away. 



STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR 
NAPLES 

The sun is warm, the sky is clear, 
The waves are dancing fast and bright, 
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear 
The purple noon's transparent might: 
The breath of the moist earth is Ught 
Around its unexpanded buds; 
Like many a voice of one delight — 
The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods' — 
The city's voice itself is soft like Solitude's. 



io6 Percy Bysshe Shelley 

* 

I see the defep's untrampled floor lo 

With green and purple sea-weeds slrown; 
I see the waves upon the shore 
Like Hght dissolved in star-showers thrown: 
I sit upon the sands alone; 

The lightning of the noon-tide ocean 1 5 

Is flashing round me, and a tone 
Arises from its measured motion — 
How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion. 

Alas! I have nor hope nor health, 
Nor peace within nor calm around, 20 

Nor that content, surpassing wealth. 
The sage in meditation found, 
And walk'd with inward glory crown VI — 
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure; 
Others I see whom these surround — 25 

Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ; 
To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. 

Yet now despair itself is mild 
Even as the winds and waters are; 
I could lie down like a tired child, 30 

And weep away the life of care 
Which I have borne, and yet must bear, — 
Till death Hke sleep might steal on mc, 
And I might feel in the warm air 

My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea 35 

Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. 



Lines Written Among the Euganean Hills 107 



LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS 

Many a green isle needs must be 

In the deep wide sea of Misery, 

Or the mariner, worn and wan. 

Never thus could voyage on 

Day and night, and night and day, 5 

Drifting on his dreary way, 

With the soHd darkness black 

Closing round his vessel's track ; 

Whilst above, the sunless sky 

Big with clouds, hangs heavily, 10 

And behind the tempest fleet 

Hurries on with lightning feet, 

Riving sail, and cord, and plank, 

Till the ship has almost drank 

Death from the o'er-brimming deep; 15 

And sinks down, down, like that sleep 

When the dreamer seems to be 

Weltering through eternity; 

And the dim low line before 

Of a dark and distant shore 20 

Still recedes, as ever still 

Longing with divided will, 

But no power to seek or shun, 

He is ever drifted on 

O'er the unreposing wave, 25 

To the haven of the grave. 

Ah, many flowering islands he 
In the waters of wide Agony: 
To such a one this morn was led 
My bark, by soft winds piloted. 30 

— 'Mid the mountains Euganean 
I stood listening to the paean 



lo8 Percy Bysshe Shelley 

With which the legion 'd rooks did hail 

The Sun's uprise majestical: 

Gathering round with wings all hoar, 35 

Through the dewy mist they soar 

Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven 

Bursts; and then, — as clouds of even 

Fleck'd with fire and azure, he 

In the unfathomable sky, — 40 

So their plumes of purple grain 

Starr'd with drops of golden rain 

Gleam above the sunlight woods, 

As in silent multitudes 

On the morning's fitful gale 45 

Through the broken mist they sail; 

And the vapors cloven and gleaming 

Follow down the dark steep streaming, 

Till all is bright, and clear, and still 

Round the sohtary hill. 50 

Beneath is spread hke a green sea 
The waveless plain of Lombardy, 
Bounded by the vaporous air, 
Islanded by cities fair; 

Underneath Day's azure eyes, 55 

Ocean's nursling, Venice lies, — 
A peopled labyrinth of walls, 
Amphitrite's destined halls, 
Which her hoary sire now paves 
With his blue and beaming waves. 60 

Lo! the sun upsprings behind, 
Broad, red, radiant, half-rechned 
On the level quivering line 
Of the waters crystalline; 

And before that chasm of light, 65 

As within a furnace bright. 
Column, tower, and dome, and spire, 



Lines Written Among the Euganean Hills 109 

Shine like obelisks of fire, 

Pointing with inconstant motion 

From the altar of dark ocean 70 

To the sapphire- tinted skies; 

As the flames of sacrifice 

From the marble shrines did rise 

As to pierce the dome of gold 

Where Apollo spoke of old. 75 

Sun-girt City! thou hast been 
Ocean's child, and then his queen; 
Now is come a darker day, 
And thou soon must be his prey. 
If the power that raised thee here 80 

Hallow so thy watery bier. 
A less drear ruin then than now, 
With thy conquest-branded brow 
Stooping to the slave of slaves 
From thy throne among the waves 85 

Wilt thou be, — when the sea-mew 
FHes, as once before it flew, 
O'er thine isles depopulate, 
And all is in its ancient state, 

Save where many a palace-gate 90 

With green sea-flowers overgrown 
Like a rock of ocean's own, 
Topples o'er the abandon'd sea 
As the tides change sullenly. 

The fisher on his watery way 95 

Wandering at the close of day, 
Will spread his sail and seize his oar 
Till he pass the gloomy shore. 
Lest thy dead should, from their sleep, 
Bursting o'er the starlight deep, 100 

Lead a rapid masque of death 
O'er the waters of his path. 



no Percy Bysshe Shelley 

Noon descends around me now: 
'T is the noon of autumn's glow, 
When a soft and purple mist 105 

Like a vaporous amethyst, 
Or an air-dissolved star 
Mingling light and fragrance, far 
From the curved horizon's bound 
To the point of heaven's profound, no 

Fills the overflowing sky; 
And the plains that silent lie 
Underneath; the leaves unsodden 
Where the infant Frost has trodden 
With his morning-winged feet " 115 

Whose bright print is gleaming yet; 
And the red and golden vines 
Piercing with their trellised lines 
The rough, dark-skirted wilderness; 
The dun and bladed grass no less, 120 

Pointing from this hoary tower 
In the windless air; the flower 
Glimmering at my feet; the line 
Of the olive-sandall'd Apennine 
In the south dimly islanded ; 125 

And the Alps, whose snows are spread 
High between the clouds and sun; 
And of living things each one; 
And my spirit, which so long 

Darken'd this swift stream of song, — 130 

Interpenetrated lie 
By the glory of the sky; 
Be it love, Hght, harmony, 
Odor, or the soul of all 

Which from heaven Hke dew doth fall, 135 

Or the mind which feeds this verse. 
Peopling the lone universe. 



Lines Written Among the Euganean Hills iii 

Noon descends, and after noon 
Autumn's evening meets me soon, 
Leading the infantine moon 140 

And that one star, which to her 
Almost seems to minister 
Half the crimson light she brings 
From the sunset's radiant springs: 
And the soft dreams of the morn 145 

(Which like winged winds had borne 
To that silent isle, which lies 
'Mid remember'd agonies, 
The frail bark of this lone being) , 
Pass, to other sufferers fleeing, 150 

And its ancient pilot, Pain, 
Sits beside the helm again. 

Other flowering isles must be 
In the sea of Life and Agony: 
Other spirits float and flee 155 

O'er that gulf: Ev'n now, perhaps, 
On some rock the wild wave wraps, 
With folded wings they waiting sit 
For my bark, to pilot it 

To some calm and blooming cove; 160 

Where for me, and those I love. 
May a windless bower be built. 
Far from passion, pain, and guilt, 
In a dell 'mid lawny hills 

Which the wild sea-murmur fills, 165 

And soft sunshine, and the sound 
Of old forests echoing round. 
And the light and smell divine 
Of all flowers that breathe and shine. 
— We may live so happy there, 170 

That the Spirits of the Air 
Envying us, may ev'n entice 



Percy Bysshe Shelley 

To our healing paradise 

The polluting multitude: 

But their rage would be subdued 175 

By that clime divine and calm, 

And the winds whose wings rain balm 

On the uphfted soul, and leaves 

Under which the bright sea heaves; 

While each breathless interval 180 

In their whisperings musical 

The inspired soul supplies 

With its own deep melodies; 

And the Love which heals all strife 

Circling, like the breath of life, 185 

All things in that sweet abode 

With its own mild brotherhood: — 

They, not it, would change; and soon 

Every sprite beneath the moon 

Would repent its envy vain, 190 

And the Earth grow young again. 



ODE TO THE WEST WIND 



O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, 
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead 
Are driven, Hke ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, 
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, 
Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou 
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, 
Each Hke a corpse within its grave, until 
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow 
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) 
With living hues and odors plain and hill : 



/« 



Ode to the West Wind 113 

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; 
Destroyer and Preserver; Hear, oh hear! 



Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commo- 
tion, 15 
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, 
Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean, 
Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread 
On the blue surface of thine airy surge, 
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 20 
Of some fierce Maenad, ev'n from the dim verge 
Of the horizon to the zenith's height — 
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge 
Of the dying year, to which this closing night 
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 25 
Vaulted with all thy congregated might 
Of vapors, from whose sohd atmosphere 
Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: Oh hear! 



Ill 

Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreams 
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 30 

LuU'd by the coil of his crystalline streams, 
Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, 
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 
Quivering within the wave's intenser day, 
All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers 35 

So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou 
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below 
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear 
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 40 

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear 
And tremble and despoil themselves: Oh hear! 



114 Percy Bysshe Shelley 

IV 

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; 
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; 
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 45 

The impulse of thy strength, only less free 
Than Thou, O uncontrollable! If even 
I were as in my boyhood, and could be 
The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, 
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed 50 

Scarce seem'd a vision, — I would ne'er have striven 
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 
Oh! hft me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! 
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! 
A heavy weight of hours has chain 'd and bow'd 55 

One too like thee — tameless, and swift, and proud. 



Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is: 
What if my leaves are falhng like its own ! 
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 
Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, 60 

Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, 
My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one! 
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe, 
Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth; 
And, by the incantation of this verse, 65 

Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth 
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! 
Be through my Hps to unawaken'd earth 
The trumpet of a prophecy! O wind, 
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? 70 



The Indian Serenade 115 



THE INDIAN SERENADE 

I ARISE from dreams of Thee 

In the first sweet sleep of night 

When the winds are breathing low 

And the stars are shining bright: 

I arise from dreams of thee, 5 

And a spirit in my feet 

Hath led me — who knows how? 

To thy chamber-window. Sweet! 

The wandering airs they faint 

On the dark, the silent stream — 10 

The champak odors fail 

Like sweet thoughts in a dream; 

The nightingale's complaint 

It dies upon her heart, 

As I must die on thine 15 

beloved as thou art ! 

Oh hft me from the grass! 

1 die, I faint, I fail! 

Let thy love in kisses rain 

On my lips and eyeHds pale. 20 

My cheek is cold and white, alas! 

My heart beats loud and fast; 

Oh! press it close to thine again 

Where it will break at last. 



Ii6 Percy Bysshe Shelley 



LOVES PHILOSOPHY 

The fountains mingle with the river 

And the rivers with the ocean, 

The winds of heaven mix for ever 

With a sweet emotion ; 

Nothing in the world is single, 5 

All things by a law divine 

In one another's being mingle — 

Why not I with thine? 

See the mountains kiss high heaven, 

And the waves clasp one another; 10 

No sister-flower would be forgiven 

If it disdain'd its brother: 

And the sunhght clasps the earth, 

And the moonbeams kiss the sea — 

What are all these kissings worth, 15 

If thou kiss not me? 

A DREAM OF THE UNKNOWN 

I dream'd that as I wander'd by the way 
Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring, 

And gentle odors led my steps astray, 
Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring 

Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay 5 

Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling 

Its green arms round the bosom of the stream. 

But kiss'd it and then fled, as Thou mightest in dream. 

There grew pied wind-flowers and violets. 

Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth, 10 

The constellated flower that never sets; 

Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birth 



A Dream of the Unknown 117 

The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets 

Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears, 

When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears. 15 

And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine. 
Green cow-bind and the moonlight-color'd May, 

And cheery-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine 
Was the bright dew yet drain'd not by the day; 

And wild roses, and ivy serpentine 20 

With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray; 

And flowers azure, black, and streak'd with gold. 

Fairer than any waken 'd eyes behold. 

And nearer to the river's trembling edge 

There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prank'd with white, 25 
And starry river-buds among the sedge, 

And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, 
Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge 

With moonlight beams of their own watery light; 
And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green 30 

As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen. 

Methought that of these visionary flowers 

I made a nosegay, bound in such a way 
That the same hues, which in their natural bowers 

Were mingled or opposed, the like array 35 

Kept these imprison'd children of the Hours 

Within my hand, — and then, elate and gay, 
I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come 
That I might there present it — O! to Whom? 



ii8 Percy Bysshe Shelley 



THE CLOUD 

I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 

From the seas and the streams; 
I bear Hght shade for the leaves when laid 

In their noonday dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 5 

The sweet buds every one 
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 

As she dances about in the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 

And whiten the green plains under, 10 

And then again I dissolve it in rain, 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below. 

And their great pines groan aghast; 
And ah the night 't is my pillow white, 15 

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers, 

Lightning my pilot sits; 
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, 

It struggles and howls at fits; 20 

Over earth and ocean with gentle motion. 

This pilot is guiding me. 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea; 
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, 25 

Over the lakes and the plains. 
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, 

The Spirit he loves remains; 
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile. 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 30 

The sanguine sunrise with his meteor eyes. 
And his burning plumes outspread. 



The Cloud 1 19 

Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 

When the morning star shines dead, 
As on the jag of a mountain crag, 35 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, 
An eagle alit one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings. 
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, 

Its ardors of rest and love, 40 

And the crimson pall of eve may fall 

From the depth of heaven above. 
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, 

As still as a brooding dove. 

That orbed maiden with white fire laden, 45 

Whom mortals call the moon, 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor. 

By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, 

Which only the angels hear, 50 

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof. 

The stars peep behind her and peer; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee. 

Like a swarm of golden bees. 
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, 55 

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas. 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high. 

Are each paved with the moon and these. 

1 blind the sun's throne with a burning zone, 

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl; 60 

The volcanoes are dim and the stars reel and swim. 

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-hke shape, 

Over a torrent sea, 
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, 65 

The mountains its columns be. 



I20 Percy Bysshe Shelley 

The triumphal arch through which I march 

With hurricane, fire, and snow. 
When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, 

Is the million-colored bow; 70 

The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove 
•^' Whilst the moist earth was laughing below. 



I am the daughter of earth and water, 

And the nursHng of the sky; 
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; 75 

I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain, when with never a stain. 

The pavilion of heaven is bare. 
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams. 

Build up the blue dome of air, 80 

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 

And out of the caverns of rain, 
Like a child from the womb, hke a ghost from the tomb, 

I arise and unbuild it again.. 



TO A SKYLARK 

Hail to thee, bhthe Spirit! 

Bird thou never wert. 
That from heaven, or near it 

Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 5 

Higher still and higher 

From the earth thou springest, 
Like a cloud of fire, 

The blue deep thou wingest. 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 10 



To a Skylark 121 

In the golden lightning 

Of the sunken sun 
O'er which clouds are brightening, 

Thou dost float and run, 
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 15 

The pale purple even 

Melts around thy flight; 
Like a star of heaven 

In the broad daylight 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight: 20 

Keen as are the arrows 

Of that silver sphere 
Whose intense lamp narrows 

In the white dawn clear 
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 25 

All the earth and air 

With thy voice is loud. 
As, when night is bare. 
From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd. 30 

What thou art we know not; 

What is most like thee? 
From rainbow clouds there flow not 

Drops so bright to see 
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody; — 35 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought, 
Singing hymns unbidden, 

Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: 40 



122 Percy Bysshe Shelley 

Like a high-born maiden 

In a palace tower, 
Soothing her love-laden 

Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: 45 

Like a glow-worm golden 

In a dell of dew, 
Scattering unbeholden 

Its aerial hue 
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view, 50 

Like a rose embower'd 

In its own green leaves, 
By warm winds deflower'd, 

Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves, 

Sound of vernal showers 56 

On the twinkhng grass, 
Rain-awaken 'd flowers, 

All that ever was 
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. 60 

Teach us, sprite or bird. 

What sweet thoughts are thine: 
I have never heard 
Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 65 

Chorus hymeneal 

Or triumphal chaunt 
Match'd with thine, would be all 

But an empty vaunt — 
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 7° 



To a Skylark 123 

What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain? 
What fields, or waves, or mountains? 

What shapes of sky or plain? 
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? 75 

With thy clear keen joyance 

Languor cannot be: 
Shadow of annoyance 
Never came near thee : 
Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety, 80 

Waking or asleep 

Thou of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 

Than we mortals dream, 
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? 85 

We look before and after, 

And pine for what is not : 
Our sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught ; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 90 

Yet if we could scorn 

Hate, and pride, and fear; 
If we were things born 

Not to shed a tear, 
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 95 

Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound, 
Better than all treasures 

That in books are found. 
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! 100 



124 Percy Bysshe Shelley 

Teach me half the gladness 

That thy brain must know, 
Such harmonious madness 

From my lips would flow, 
The world should listen then, as I am listening now! 105 



A SONG 

I FEAR thy kisses, gentle maiden; 
Thou needest not fear mine; 
My spirit is too deeply laden 
Ever to burthen thine. 

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion; 
Thou needest not fear mine; 
Innocent is the heart's devotion 
With which I worship thine. 



TO THE NIGHT 

Swiftly walk over the western wave, 

Spirit of Night! 
Out of the misty eastern cave 
Where, all the long and lone daylighf 
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear 5 

Which make thee terrible and dear,- 

Swift be thy flight! 

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray 

Star-inwrought; 
Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day, 10 

Kiss her until she be wearied out: 
Then wander o'er city and sea and land, 
Touching all with thine opiate wand — 

Come, long-sought! 



To the Moon 125 

When I arose and saw the dawn, 15 

I sigh'd for thee; 
WTien Hght rode high, and the dew was gone, 
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, 
And the weary Day turn'd to his rest 
Lingering Uke an unloved guest, 20 

I sigh'd for thee. 

Thy brother Death came, and cried 

VVouldst thou me? 
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, 
Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee 25 

Shall I nestle near thy side? 
Wouldst thou me? — And I replied 

No, not thee! 

Death will come when thou art dead. 

Soon, too soon — 30 

Sleep will come when thou art fled; 
Of neither would I ask the boon 
I ask of thee, beloved Night — 
Swift be thine approaching flight, 

Come soon, soon! 35 



TO THE MOON 

Art thou pale for weariness 
Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth. 

Wandering companionless 
Among the stars that have a different birth,- 
And ever-changing, like a joyless eye 
That finds no object worth its constancy? 



26 Percy Bysshe Shelley 



MUSIC, WHEN SOFT VOICES DIE 

Music, when soft voices die, 
Vibrates in the memory — 
Odors, when sweet violets sicken, 
Live within the sense they quicken. 

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead. 
Are heap'd for the beloved's bed; 
And so thy thoughts, when Thou art gone, 
Love itself shall slumber on. 



ONE WORD IS TOO OFTEN PROFANED 

One word is too often profaned 

For me to profane it. 
One feeling too falsely disdain 'd 

For thee to disdain it. 
One hope is too like despair 5 

For prudence to smother. 
And pity from thee more dear 

Than that from another. 

I can give not what men call love; 

But wilt thou accept not 10 

The worship the heart lifts above 

And the Heavens reject not: 
The desire of the moth for the star 

Of the night for the morrow. 
The devotion to something afar 15 

From the sphere of our sorrow? 



The Flight of Love 127 



THE FLIGHT OF LOVE 

When the lamp is shalter'd 

The light in the dust lies dead — 

When the cloud is scatter'd, 

The rainbow's glory is shed. 

When the lute is broken, 5 

Sweet tones are remember'd not; 

When the lips have spoken, 

Loved accents are soon forgot. 

As music and splendor 

Survive not the lamp and the lute, 10 

The heart's echoes render 

No song when the spirit is mute — 

No song but sad dirges, 

Like the wind through a ruin'd cell. 

Or the mournful surges 15 

That ring the dead seaman's knell. 

When hearts have once mingled, 

Love first leaves the well-built nest; 

The weak one is singled 

To endure what it once possesst. 20 

O Love! who bewailest 

The frailty of all things here, 

Why choose you the frailest 

For your cradle, your home, and your bier? 



Its passions will rock thee 25 

As the storms rock the ravens on high; 
Bright reason will mock thee 
Like the sun from a wintry sky. 



128 Percy Bysshe Shelley 

From thy nest every rafter 

Will rot, and thine eagle home 30 

Leave thee naked to laughter, 

When leaves fall and cold winds come. 



THRENOS 

world! OLife! O Time! 
On whose last steps I climb, 

Trembling at that where I had stood before; 
When will return the glory of your prime? 

No more — Oh, never more! 5 

Out of the day and night 
A joy has taken flight: 

Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar 
Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight 

No more — Oh, never more! 10 



THE INVITATION 

Best and brightest, come away, — 
Fairer far than this fair Day, 
Which, like thee, to those in sorrow- 
Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow 
To the rough year just awake 5 

In its cradle on the brake. 
The brightest hour of unborn Spring 
Through the winter wandering. 
Found, it seems, the halcyon morn 
To hoar February born ; 10 

Bending from heaven, in azure mirth, 
It kiss'd the forehead of the earth, 



The Invitation 129 

And smiled upon the silent sea, 

And bade the frozen streams be free, 

And waked to music all their fountains, 15 

And breathed upon the frozen mountains, 

And like a prophetess of May 

Strew'd flowers upon the barren way, 

Making the wintry world appear 

Like one on whom thou smilest, dear. 20 



Away, away, from men and towns. 
To the wild wood and the downs — 
To the silent wilderness 
Where the soul need not repress 
Its music, lest it should not find 25 

An echo in another's mind, 
While the touch of Nature's art 
Harmonizes heart to heart. 

Radiant Sister of the Day 
Awake! arise! and come away! 30 

To the wild woods and the plains, 
To the pools where winter rains 
Image all their roof of leaves, 
Where the pine its garland weaves 
Of sapless green, and ivy dun, 35 

Round stems that never kiss the sun; 
Where the lawns and pastures be 
And the sandhills of the sea; 
Where the melting hoar-frost wets 
The daisy-star that never sets, 40 

And wind-flowers and violets 
Which yet join not scent to hue 
Crown the pale year weak and new; 
When the night is left behind 
In the deep east, dim and blind, 45 



130 Percy Bysshe Shelley 

And the blue noon is over us, 

And the multitudinous 

Billows murmur at our feet, 

Where the earth and ocean meet, 

And all things seem only one 50 

In the universal Sun. 



THE RECOLLECTION 

Now the last day of many days 

All beautiful and bright as thou. 

The loveliest and the last, is dead: 

Rise, Memory, and write its praise! 

Up — to thy wonted work! come, trace 5 

The epitaph of glory fled, 

For now the earth has changed its face, 

A frown is on the heaven's brow. 

We wander'd to the Pine Forest 

That skirts the Ocean's foam; 10 

The lightest wind was in its nest, 

The tempest in its home. 
The whispering waves were half asleep, 

The clouds were gone to play. 
And on the bosom of the deep 15 

The smile of heaven lay; 
It seem'd as if the hour were one 

Sent from beyond the skies 
Which scatter'd from above the sun 

A light of Paradise! 20 

We paused amid the pines that stood 

The giants of the waste, 
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude 

As serpents interlaced, — 



The Recollection 131 

And soothed by every azure breath 25 

That under heaven is blown, 
To harmonies and hues beneath, 

As tender as its own : 
Now all the tree-tops lay asleep 

Like green waves on the sea, 30 

As still as in the silent deep 

The ocean- woods may be. 

How calm it was! — The silence there 

By such a chain was bound, 
That even the busy woodpecker 35 

Made stiller with her sound 
The inviolable quietness; 

The breath of peace we drew 
With its soft motion made not less 

The calm that round us grew. 40 

There seem'd, from the remotest seat 

Of the white mountain waste 
To the soft flower beneath our feet, 

A magic circle traced, — 
A spirit interfused around, 45 

A thriUing silent Hfe; 
To momentary peace it bound 

Our mortal nature's strife; — 
And still I felt the center of 

The magic circle there 50 

Was one fair form that fill'd with lovs 

The lifeless atmosphere. 

We paused beside the pools that lie 

Under the forest bough ; 
Each seem'd as 't were a little sky 55 

Gulf'd in a world below; 
A firmanent of purple light 

Which in the dark earth lay. 



132 Percy Bysshe Shelley 

More boundless than the depth of night 

And purer than the day — 60 

In which the lovely forests grew 

As in the upper air, 
More perfect both in shade and hue 

Than any spreading there. 
There lay the glade and neighboring lawn, 65 

And through the dark-green wood 
The white sun twinkling like the dawn 

Out of a speckled cloud. 
Sweet views in which our world above 

Can never well be seen 70 

Were imaged in the water's love 

Of that fair forest green: 
And all was interfused beneath 

With an Elysian glow, 
An atmosphere without a breath, 75 

A softer day below. 
Like one beloved, the scene had lent 

To the dark water's breast 
Its every leaf and lineament 

With more than truth exprest; 80 

Until an envious wind crept by, 

Like an unwelcome thought 
Which from the mind's too faithful eye 

Blots one dear image out. 
— Though thou art ever fair and kind, 85 

The forests ever green, 
Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind 

Than calm in waters seen! 



To a Lady, with a Guitar 133 

TO A LADY, WITH A GUITAR 

Ariel to Miranda: — Take 

This slave of music, for the sake 

Of him, who is the slave of thee; 

And teach it all the harmony 

In which thou canst, and only thou, 5 

Make the delighted spirit glow, 

Till joy denies itself again 

And, too intense, is turn'd to pain. 

For by permission and command 

Of thine own Prince Ferdinand, 10 

Poor Ariel sends this silent token 

Of more than ever can be spoken; 

Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who 

From hfe to life must still pursue 

Your happiness, for thus alone 15 

Can Ariel ever find his own. 

From Prospero's enchanted cell, 

As the mighty verses tell. 

To the throne of Naples he 

Lit you o'er the trackless sea, 20 

Flitting on, your prow before, 

Like a living meteor. 

When you die, the silent Moon 

In her interlunar swoon 

Is not sadder in her cell 25 

Than deserted Ariel : — 

When you live again on earth, 

Like an unseen Star of birth 

Ariel guides you o'er the sea 

Of life from your nativity : — 30 

Many changes have been run 

Since Ferdinand and you begun 

Your course of love, and Ariel still 



134 Percy Bysshe Shelley 

Has track'd your steps and served your will. 

Now in humbler, happier lot, 35 

This is all remember 'd not; 

And now, alas ! the poor Sprite is 

Imprison 'd for some fault of his 

In a body like a grave — 

From you he only dares to crave, 40 

For his service and his sorrow 

A smile to-day, a song to-morrow. 

The artist who this idol wrought 

To echo all harmonious thought, 

Fell'd a tree, while on the steep 45 

The woods were in their winter sleep, 

Rock'd in that repose divine 

On the wind-swept Apennine; 

And dreaming, some of Autumn past. 

And some of Spring approaching fast, 50 

And some of April buds and showers, 

And some of songs in July bowers. 

And all of love: And so this tree, — 

Oh that such our death may be! — 

Died in sleep, and felt no pain, 55 

To live in happier form again: 

From which, beneath heaven's fairest star, 

The artist wrought this loved Guitar; 

And taught it justly to reply 

To all who question skilfully 60 

In language gentle as thine own; 

Whispering in enamour'd tone 

Sweet oracles of woods and dells, 

And summer winds in sylvan cells: 

— For it had learnt all harmonies 65 

Of the plains and of the skies, 

Of the forests and the mountains, 

And the many- voiced fountains; 



The Poet's Dream 135 

The clearest echoes of the hills, 

The softest notes of falHng rills, 70 

The melodies of birds and bees, 

The murmuring of summer seas, 

And pattering rain, and breathing dew, 

And airs of evening ; and it knew 

That seldom-heard mysterious sound 75 

Which, driven on- its diurnal round. 

As it floats through boundless day. 

Our world enkindles on its way: 

— All this it knows, but will not tell 

To those who cannot question well 80 

The Spirit that inhabits it; 

It talks according to the wit 

Of its companions; and no more 

Is heard than has been felt before 

By those who tempt it to betray 85 

These secrets of an elder day. 

But, sweetly as its answers will 

Flatter hands of perfect skill, 

It keeps its highest holiest tone 

For our beloved Friend alone. 90 



THE POETS DREAM 

On a Poet's lips I slept 

Dreaming like a love-adept 

In the sound his breathing kept; 

Nor seeks nor finds he mortal bhsses, 

But feeds on the aerial kisses 

Of shapes that haunt Thought's wildernesses. 

He will watch from dawn to gloom 

The lake-reflected sun illume 

The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom. 



136 Percy Bysshe Shelley 

Nor heed nor see what things they be- 
But from these create he can 
Forms more real than hving Man, 

Nurshngs of ImmortaUty! 



A DIRGE 

Rough wind, that moanest loud 

Grief too sad for song; 
Wild wind, when sullen cloud 

Knells all the night long; 
Sad storm whose tears are vain, 
Bare woods whose branches stain, 
Deep caves and dreary main, — 

Wail for the world's wrong! 



JOHN KEATS 




John Keats 



POEMS OF KEATS 



TO ONE WHO HAS BEEN LONG IN CITY PENT 

To one who has been long in city pent, 

'T is very sweet to look into the fair 

And open face of heaven, — to breathe a prayer 

Full in the smile of the blue firmanent. 

Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, 5 

Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair 

Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair 

And gentle tale of love and languishment? 

Returning home at evening, with an ear 

Catching the notes of Philomel, — an eye 10 

Watching the saihng cloudlet's bright career, 

He mourns that day so soon has glided by : 

E'en like the passage of an angel's tear 

That falls through the clear ether silently. 



ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER 

Much have I travel'd in the realms of gold 
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; 
Round many western islands have I been 
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 
That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne: 
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: 
— Then felt I Hke some watcher of the skies 
139 



140 Jol^n Keats 

When a new planet swims into his ken; 
Or Hke stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes 
He stared at the Pacific — and all his men 
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise- 
Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 



THE TERROR OF DEATH 

When I have fears that I may cease to be 

Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain, 

Before high-piled books, in charact'ry 

Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain; 

When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, 5 

Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, 

And think that I may never live to trace 

Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; 

And when I feel, fair Creature of an hour! 

That I shall never look upon thee more, 10 

Never have relish in the faery power 

Of unreflecting love — then on the shore 

Of the wide world I stand alone, and think 

Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. 



HAPPY INSENSIBILITY 

In a drear-nighted December, 

Too happy, happy tree. 

Thy branches ne'er remember 

Their green felicity : 

The north cannot undo them 

With a sleety whistle through them, 

Nor frozen thawings glue them 

From budding at the prime. 



The Eve of St. Agnes 141 

In a drear-nighted December, 

Too happy, happy brook, 10 

Thy bubbUngs ne'er remember 

Apollo's summer look; 

But with a sweet forgetting 

They stay their crystal fretting. 

Never, never petting 15 

About the frozen time. 

Ah! would 't were so with many 

A gentle girl and boy! 

But were there ever any 

Writhed not at passed joy? 20 

To know the change and feel it, 

When there is none to heal it 

Nor numbed sense to steal it — 

Was never said in rhyme. 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 

I 
St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was! 
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; 
The hare Hmp'd trembling through the frozen grass, 
And silent was the flock in woolly fold: 
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told 
His rosary, and while his frosted breath, 
Like pious incense from a censer old, 
Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death. 
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. 



His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man; 10 

Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees. 
And back returneth, meager, barefoot, wan, 



142 John Keats 

x\long the chapel aisle by slow degrees: 
The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze, 
Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails: 15 

Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, 
He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails 
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. 

Ill 
Northward he turneth through a little door, 
And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue 2c 

Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor; 
But no — already had his deathbell rung; 
The joys of all his Hfe were said and sung; 
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve: 
Another way he went, and soon among 25 

Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, 
And all night kept awake, for sinner's sake to grieve. 



That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft; 
And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide. 
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, 30 

The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide: 
The level chambers, ready with their pride, 
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests: 
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed. 

Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests, 35 

With hair blown back, and wings put cross- wise on their breasts. 

v 
At length burst in the argent revelry, 
With plume, tiara, and all rich array. 
Numerous as shadows haunting fairly 
The brain, new-stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay 40 
Of old romance. These let us wish away, 



The Eve of St. Agnes 143 

And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there, 
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day, 
On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care, 
As she had heard old dames full many times declare. 45 

VI 

They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, 
Young virgins might have visions of delight, 
And soft adorings from their loves receive 
Upon the honey'd middle of the night. 
If ceremonies due they did aright; 50 

As, supperless to bed they must retire. 
And couch supine their beauties, lily white; 
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require 
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. 

VII 

Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline: 55 

The music, yearning like a God in pain. 
She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine, 
Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train 
Pass by — she heeded not at all: in vain 
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, 60 

And back retir'd; not cool'd by high disdain, 
But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere: 
She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year. 

\'iii 
She danc'd along with vague, regardless eyes, 
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short: 65 
The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs 
Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort 
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport; 
'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, 
Hoodwink'd with faery fancy; all amort, 70 

Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn, 
And all the bhss to be before to-morrow morn. 



144 John Keats 

IX 

So, purposing each moment to retire, 
She Hnger'd still. Meantime, across the moors, 
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire 75 

For MadeHne. Beside the portal doors, 
Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores 
All saints to give him sight of Madeline, 
But for one moment in the tedious hours, 
That he might gaze and worship all unseen; 80 

Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth such things have 
been. 

X 

He ventures in: let no buzz'd whisper tell: 
All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords 
Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel: 
For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes, 85 

Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords. 
Whose very dogs would execrations howl 
Against his lineage: not one breast affords 
Him any mercy, in that mansion foul. 
Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. 90 

XI 

Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came, 
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand. 
To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame, 
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 
The sound of merriment and chorus bland : 95 

He startled her; but soon she knew his face. 
And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand, 
Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place; 
They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race! 

XII 

"Get hence! get hence! there 's dwarfish Hildebrand; 100 
He had a fever late, and in the fit 



The Eve of St. Agnes I45 

He cursed thee and thine, both house and land: 
Then there 's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit 
More tame for his gray hairs — Alas me ! flit ! 
Flit like a ghost away." — "Ah, Gossip dear, 105 

We 're safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit, 
And tell me how" — "Good Saints; not here, not here: 
Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier." 

XIII 

He foUow'd through a lowly arched way, 
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume; no 

And as she mutter'd "Well-a — well-a-day!" 
He found him in a httle moonhght room, 
Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. 
"Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, 
"O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 115 

Which none but secret sisterhood may see, 
When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." 

XIV 

"St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' Eve — 
Yet men will murder upon holy days; 
Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, 120 

And be Hege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, 
To venture so : it fills me with amaze 
To see thee, Porphyro! — St. Agnes' Eve! 
God's help! my lady fair the conjuror plays 
This very night: good angels her deceive! 125 

But let me laugh awhile, I 've mickle time to grieve." 

XV 

Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon. 

While Porphyro upon her face doth look. 

Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 

Who keepeth closed a wond'rous riddle-book, 130 



146 John Keats 

As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. 
But soon his eyes grew brilHant, when she told 
His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook 
Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold, 
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 135 

XVI 

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, 
Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart 
Made purple riot: then doth he propose 
A stratagem that makes the beldame start: 
"A cruel man and impious thou art: 140 

Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream 
Alone with her good angels, far apart 
From wicked men like thee. Go, go! — I deem 
Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem." 

XVII 

"I will not harm her, by all saints I swear," 145 

Quoth Porphyro: "O may I ne'er find grace 
When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer, 
If one of her soft ringlets I displace, 
Or look with ruffian passion in her face: 
Good Angela, believe me by these tears; 150 

Or I will, even in a moment's space, 
Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears. 
And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and 
bears." 

XVIII 

"Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul? 
A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing, 155 

Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll; 
Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening, 
Were never miss'd." — Thus plaining, doth she bring 



The Eve of St. Agnes 147 

A gentler speech from burning Porphyro ; 
So woful, and of such deep sorrowing, 160 

That Angela gives promise she will do 
Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. 

XIX 

Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, 
Even to MadeHne's chamber, and there hide 
Him in a closet, of such privacy 165 

That he might see her beauty unespied. 
And win perhaps that night a peerless bride. 
While legion'd fairies paced the coverlet. 
And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. 
Never on such a night have lovers met, 170 

Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt. 

XX 

"It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame: 
"All cates and dainties shall be stored there 
Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame 
Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare, 175 

For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer 
The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed. 
Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." 180 

XXI 

So saying, she hobbled of? with busy fear. 
The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd; 
The dame returned, and whisper'd in his ear 
To follow her; with aged eyes aghast 
From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, 185 

Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 
The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd, and chaste; 
Where Porphyro took covert, pleas'd amain. 
His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. 



148 John Keats 

XXII 

Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade, 190 

Old Angela was feeling for the stair, 
When Madehne, St. Agnes' charmed maid. 
Rose, Hke a mission'd spirit, unaware: 
With silver taper's light, and pious care, 
She turn'd. and down the aged gossip led 195 

To a safe level matting. Now prepare, 
Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed; 
She comes, she comes again, hke ring-dove fray'd and fled. 

XXIII 

Out went the taper as she hurried in; 
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died: 200 

She closed the door, she panted, all akin 
To spirits of the air, and visions wide: 
No utter'd syllable, or, woe betide! 
But to her heart, her heart was voluble, 
Paining with eloquence her balmy side; 205 

As though a tongueless nightingale should swell 
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell. 

XXIV 

A casement high and triple-arch'd there was, 
All garlanded with carven imag'ries 

Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, 210 

And diamonded with panes of quaint device, 
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, 
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings; 
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries, 
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, 215 

A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings. 



Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, 
And threw warm gules on Madehne's fair breast. 



The Eve of St. Agnes 149 

As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon; 
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, 220 

And on her silver cross soft amethyst, 
And on her hair a glory, hke a saint : 
She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest, 
Save wings, for heaven :—Porphyro grew faint: 
She knelt so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. 225 

XXVI 

Anon his heart revives: her vespers done, 
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees, 
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one, 
Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees 
Her rich attire creeps rusthng to her knees: 230 

Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed. 
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees. 
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, 
But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. 

XXMI 

Soon, trembhng in her soft and chilly nest, 2.35 

In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay, 
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd 
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away; 
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day, 
Bhssfully haven 'd both from joy and pain, 240 

Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray. 
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain. 
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. 

XXVIII 

Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced, 

Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, 245 

And Hsten'd to her breathing, if it chanced 

To wake into a slumberous tenderness; 

Which when he heard, that minute did he bless. 



150 John Keats 

And breath'd himself: then from the closet crept, 
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, 250 

And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept. 
And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo! — how fast she slept. 

XXIX 

Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon 
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 
A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon 255 

A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet: — 
O for some drowsy Morphean amulet! 
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, 
The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, 
Affray his ears, though but in dying tone : — 260 

The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. 

XXX 

And still she slept an azure-hdded sleep, 
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd, 
While he from forth the closet brought a heap 
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd, 265 

With jellies soother than the creamy curd, 
And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon, 
Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd 
From Fez, and spiced dainties, every one, 
From silken Samarcand to cedar 'd Lebanon. 270 

XXXI 

These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand 
On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand 
In the retired quiet of the night, 

Fining the chilly room with perfume light. — 275 

"And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake! 
Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite: 
Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake. 
Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache." 



The Eve of St. Agnes 151 

xxxn 
Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 280 

Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream 
By the dusk curtains: — 'twas a midnight charm 
Impossible to melt as iced stream: 
The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam ; 
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet Hes: 285 

It seem'd he never, never could redeem 
From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes; 
So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies. 

XXXIII 

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and, in chords that tenderest be, 290 
He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute, 
In Provence call'd "La belle dame sans mercy:" 
Close to her ear touching the melody; — 
Wherewith disturb 'd, she utter'd a soft moan: 
He ceased — she panted quick — and suddenly 295 

Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone : 
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone. 

XXXIV 

Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, 
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep: 
There was a painful change, that night expell'd 300 

The blisses of her dream so pure and deep; 
At which fair Madeline began to weep. 
And moan forth witless words with many a sigh; 
While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep; 
Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, 305 

Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly. 

XXXV 

"Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now 
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear. 



152 John Keats 

Made tuneable with every sweetest vow; 
And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear: 310 

How changed thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear! 
Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 
Those looks immortal, those complainings dear! 
Oh leave me not in this eternal woe, 
For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go." 315 

xxxvi 

Beyond a mortal man impassion 'd far 
At these voluptuous accents, he arose, 
Ethereal, flush'd, and Hke a throbbing star 
Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose; 
Into her dream he melted, as the rose 320 

Blendeth its odor with the violet, — 
Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows 
Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet 
Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set. 

XXX\II 

'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet: 325 
"This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!" 
'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat: 
"No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine! 
Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.— 
Cruel ! what traitor could thee hither bring? 330 

I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine. 
Though thou forsakest a deceived thing — 
A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing." 

XXXVIII 

"My Madehne! sweet dreamer! lovely bride! 
Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest? 335 

Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed? 
Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest 
After so many hours of toil and quest, 



The Eve of St. Agnes 153 

A famish'd pilgrim, — saved by miracle. 
Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest 340 

Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well 
To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. 

XXXIX 

"Hark! 't is an elfin storm from faery land, 
Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed : 
Arise — arise! the morning is at hand; — 345 

The bloated wassailers will never heed :■ — 
Let us away, my love, with happy speed; 
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, — 
Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead: 
Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be, 350 

For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee." 

XL 

She hurried at his words, beset with fears. 
For there were sleeping dragons all around. 
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears; 
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found; 355 
In all the house was heard no human sound. 
A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door; 
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, 
Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar; 
And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. 360 

XLI 

They ghde, hke phantoms, into the wide hall; 
Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide, 
Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl. 
With a huge empty flagon by his side : 
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, 365 
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns: 
By one, and one, the bolts full easy sHde: — 
The chains he silent on the footworn stones; 
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans. 



154 John Keats 

XLII 

And they are gone: ay, ages long ago 370 

These lovers fled away into the storm. 
That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe, 
And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form 
Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm. 
Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old 375 

Died palsy-twitch'd, with meager face deform; 
The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, 
For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. 

THE HUMAN SEASONS 

Four Seasons fill the measure of the year; 

There are four seasons in the mind of man: 

He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear 

Takes in all beauty with an easy span : 

He has his Summer, when luxuriously 5 

Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves 

To ruminate, and by such dreaming high 

Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves 

His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings 

He furleth close; contented so to look 10 

On mists in idleness — to let fair things 

Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. 

He has his Winter too of pale misfeature 

Or else he would forego his mortal natun 

THE MERMAID TAVERN 

Souls of Poets dead and gone, 
What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern, 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 



The Realm of Fancy 155 

Have ye tippled drink more fine S 

Than mine host's Canary wine? 

Or are fruits of Paradise 

Sweeter than those dainty pies 

Of venison? O generous food! 

Drest as though bold Robin Hood 10 

Would, with his Maid Marian, 

Sup and bowse from horn and can. 

I have heard that on a day 
Mine host's sign-board flew away 
Nobody knew whither, till 15 

An astrologer's old quill 
To a sheepskin gave the story. 
Said he saw you in your glory, 
Underneath a new-old sign 

Sipping beverage divine, 20 

And pledging with contented smack 
The Mermaid in the Zodiac. 

Souls of Poets dead and gone. 
What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern, 25 

Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 



THE REALM OF FANCY 

Ever let the Fancy roam; 

Pleasure never is at home: 

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth. 

Like to bubbles when rain pelteth; 

Then let winged Fancy wander 

Through the thought still spread beyond her: 

Open wide the mind's cage-door. 

She '11 dart forth, and cloudward soar. 



156 John Keats 

O sweet Fancy! let her loose; 

Summer's joys are spoilt by use, 10 

And the enjoying of the Spring 

Fades as does its blossoming; 

Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too, 

Blushing through the mist and dew, 

Cloys with tasting: What do then? 15 

Sit thee by the ingle, when 

The sear faggot blazes bright, 

Spirit of a winter's night; 

When the soundless earth is muffled, 

And the caked snow is shuffled 20 

From the ploughboy's heavy shoon: 

When the Night doth meet the Noon 

In a dark conspiracy 

To banish Even from her sky. 

Sit thee there, and send abroad, 25 

With a mind self-overaw'd, 

Fancy, high-commission'd: — send her! 

She has vassals to attend her: 

She will bring, in spite of frost, 

Beauties that the earth hath lost; 30 

She will bring thee, all together 

All dehghts of summer weather; 

All the buds and bells of May, 

From dewy sward or thorny spray; 

All the heaped Autumn's wealth, . 35 

With a still, mysterious stealth: 

She will mix these pleasures up 

Like three fit wines in a cup, 

And thou shalt quaff it: — thou shalt hear 

Distant harvest-carols clear; 40 

Rustle of the reaped corn; 

Sweet birds antheming the morn : 

And, in the same moment — hark! 

'Tis the early April lark. 



The Realm of Fancy 157 

Or the rooks, with busy caw, 45 

Foraging for sticks and straw. 

Thou shalt, at one glance, behold 

The daisy and the marigold ; 

White-plumed lilies, and the first 

Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst; 50 

Shaded hyacinth, alway 

Sapphire queen of the mid-May; 

And every leaf, and every flower 

Pearled with the self-same shower. 

Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep 55 

Meager from its celled sleep; 

And the snake all winter-thin 

Cast on sunny bank its skin; 

Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see 

Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, 60 

When the hen-bird's wing doth rest 

Quiet on her mossy nest; 

Then the hurry and alarm 

When the bee-hive casts its swarm, 

Acorns ripe down-pattering, 65 

While the autumn breezes sing, 

Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose; 
Everything is spoilt by use : 
Where 's the cheek that doth not fade. 
Too much gazed at? Where 's the maid 70 

Whose lip mature is ever new? 
Where 's the eye, however blue, 
Doth not weary? Where 's the face 
One would meet in every place? 
Where 's the voice, however soft, 75 

One would hear so very oft? 
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth 
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. 
Let then winged Fancy find 
Thee a mistress to thy mind : 80 



158 John Keats 

Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter, 

Ere the God of Torment taught her 

How to frown and how to chide; 

With a waist and with a side 

White as Hebe's, when her zone 85 

Shpt its golden clasp, and down 

Fell her kirtle to her feet, 

While she held the goblet sweet, 

And Jove grew languid. — Break the mesh 

Of the Fancy's silken leash; 90 

Quickly break her prison-string, 

And such joys as these she '11 bring. 

— Let the winged Fancy roam, 

Pleasure never is at home. 



ODE ON THE POETS 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth 

Ye have left your souls on earth! 

Have ye souls in heaven too. 

Double-lived in regions new? 

— Yes, and those of heaven commune 5 

With the spheres of sun and moon; 

With the noise of fountains wond'rous 

And the parle of voices thund'rous; 

With the whisper of heaven's trees 

And one another, in soft ease 10 

Seated on Elysian lawns 

Browsed by none but Dian's fawns; 

Underneath large blue-bells tented, 

Where the daisies are rose-scented, 

And the rose herself has got 15 

Perfume which on earth is not; 

Where the nightingale doth sing 

Not a senseless, tranced thing, 



Ode on a Grecian Urn 159 

But divine melodious truth; 

Philosophic numbers smooth; 20 

Tales and golden histories 

Of heaven and its mysteries. 

Thus ye hve on high, and then 
On the earth ye live again; 

And the souls ye left behind you 25 

Teach us, here, the way to find you, 
Where your other souls are joying, 
Never slumber 'd, never cloying. 
Here, your earth-born souls still speak 
To mortals, of their Httle week; 30 

Of their sorrows and delights; 
Of their passions and their spites; 
Of their glory and their shame; 
What doth strengthen and what maim: — 
Thus ye teach us, every day, 35 

Wisdom, though fled far away. 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth 

Ye have left your souls on earth ! 

Ye have souls in heaven too, 

Double-hved in regions new! 40 



ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness. 
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time. 

Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rime, 

What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 
Of deities or mortals, or of both, 
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? 



i6o John Keats 

What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? 
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? 
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? lo 

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; 
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, 

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: 
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 15 

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; 
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, 
Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve; 

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, 

For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 20 

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed 

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; 
And, happy melodist, unwearied. 

For ever piping songs for ever new; 
More happy love! more happy, happy love! 25 

For ever warm and still to be enjoy 'd, 
For ever panting, and for ever young; 
All breathing human passion far above. 

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, 

A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 30 

Who are these coming to the sacrifice? 

To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies. 

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? 
What Httle town by river or sea shore, 35 

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, 
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? 
And, httle town, thy streets for evermore 

Will silent be; and not a soul to tell 

Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 40 



Ode to a Nightingale l6l 

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede 

Of marble men and maidens overwrought, 
With forest branches and the trodden weed; 

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought 
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! 45 

When old age shall this generation waste, 
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all 

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 50 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 

One minute past, and Lethe- wards had sunk: 
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 5 

But being too happy in thine happiness, — 
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, 
In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 

Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 10 

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been 

Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, 
Tasting of Flora and the country green, 

Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth! 
for a beaker full of the warm South, 15 

Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
And purple-stained mouth; 
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen. 
And with thee fade away into the forest dim : 20 



62 John Keats 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

What thou among the leaves hast never known, 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret 

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; 
Where palsy shakes a iew, sad, last gray hairs, 25 

Where youth grows pale, and specter-thin, and dies 
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
And leaden-eyed despairs; 
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 

Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 30 

Away! away! for I will fly to thee, 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 
But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: 
Already with thee! tender is the night, 35 

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; 
But here there is no light, 
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 40 

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet. 

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 

Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; 45 

White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; 
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; 
And mid-May's eldest child. 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine. 

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 50 

Darkling I listen; and for many a time 

I have been half in love with easeful Death, 

Call'd him soft names in many a mused rime, 
To take into the air my quiet breath; 



Ode to Autumn 163 

Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 55 

To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
In such an ecstasy! 
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 60 

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! 

No hungry generations tread thee down; 
The voice I hear this passing night was heard 

In ancient days by emperor and clown: 
Perhaps the self -same song that found a path 65 

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home. 
She stood in tears amid the alien corn; 
The same that oft-times hath 
Charm 'd magic casements, opening on the foam 
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 70 

Forlorn! the very word is hke a bell 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 
Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades 75 

Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 
Up the hill-side; and now 't is buried deep 
In the next valley-glades: 
Was it a vision, or a waking dream? 

Fled is that music: — Do I w^ake or sleep? 80 



ODE TO AUTUMN 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; 

Conspiring with him how to load and bless 

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; 



164 John Keats 

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, 5 

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; 

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells 

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, 

And still more, later flowers for the bees. 

Until they think warm days will never cease; 10 

For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells. 

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? 

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor. 

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 15 

Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, 

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: 

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 

Steady thy laden head across a brook ; 20 

Or by a cider-press, with patient look, 

Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. 

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? 

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, — 

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day 25 

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; 

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 

Among the river-sallows, borne aloft 

Or sinking as the Hght wind lives or dies; 

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; 30 

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft 

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; 

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 



La Belle Dame Sans Merci 165 



LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 

"O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms. 
Alone and palely loitering? 
The sedge has wither'd from the lake, 
And no birds sing. 

"O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! 5 

So haggard and so woe-begone? 
The squirrel's granary is full, 
And the harvest 's done. 

"I see a lily on thy brow 

With anguish moist and fever-dew, 10 

And on thy cheeks a fading rose 
Fast withereth too." 

"I met a lady in the meads. 

Full beautiful — a faery's child, 
Her hair was long, her foot was light, 15 

And her eyes were wild. 

"I made a garland for her head, 

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; 
She look'd at me as she did love, 

And made sweet moan. 20 

"I set her on my pacing steed 

And nothing else saw all day long, 
For sidelong would she bend, and sing 
A faery's song. 

"She found me roots of relish sweet, 25 

And honey wild and manna-dew. 
And sure in language strange she said 
'I love thee true.' 



i66 John Keats . 

"She took me to her elfin grot, 

And there she wept and sigh'd full sore; 30 

And there I shut her wild wild eyes 
With kisses four. 

"And there she lulled me asleep, 

And there I dream'd — Ah! woe betide! 
The latest dream I ever dream'd 35 

On the cold hill's side. 

"I saw pale kings and princes too, 

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all: 
They cried — 'La Belle Dame sans Merci 

Hath thee in thrall ! ' 40 

"I saw their starved lips in the gloam 
With horrid warning gaped wide. 
And I awoke and found me here 
On the cold hill's side. 

"And this is why I sojourn here 45 

Alone and palely loitering, 
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake. 
And no birds sing." 



BRIGHT STAR! WOULD I WERE STEADFAST 

Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art — 

Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night, 

And watching, with eternal lids apart. 

Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite. 

The moving waters at their priestHke task 

Of pure ablution round earth's human shores. 

Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask 

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors: — 



Bright Star! Would I Were Steadfast 167 

No — yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, 

Pillow'd upon my fair Love's ripening breast 10 

To feel forever its soft fall and swell. 

Awake forever in a sweet unrest ; 

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, 

And so live ever, — or else swoon to death. 



THE LESSER POETS 




Sir Walter Scott 
An engraving by Heath after a portrait by Saxon 



SELECTIONS FROM THE LESSER POETS 



GATHERING SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 

Pibroch of Donuil 
Wake thy wild voice anew. 

Summon Clan Conuil. 
Come away, come away, 5 

Hark to the summons! 
Come in your war-array. 

Gentles and commons. 

Come from deep glen, and 

From mountain so rocky; lo 

The war-pipe and pennon 

Are at Inverlocky. 
Come every hill-plaid, and 

True heart that wears one. 
Come every steel blade, and 15 

Strong hand that bears one. 

Leave untended the herd, 

The flock without shelter; 
Leave the corpse uninterr'd, 

The bride at the altar; 20 

Leave the deer, leave the steer, 

Leave nets and barges: 
Come with your fighting gear, 

Broadswords and targes. 
171 



172 The Lesser Poets 

Come as the winds come, when 25 

Forests are rended, 
Come as the waves come, when 

Navies are stranded: 
Faster come, faster come, 

Faster and faster, 30 

Chief, vassal, page and groom. 

Tenant and master. 

Fast they come, fast they come; 

See how they gather! 
Wide waves the eagle plume 35 

Blended with heather. 
Cast your plaids, draw your blades, 

Forward each man set! 
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 

Knell for the onset ! 40 

Scott. 



A SERENADE 

Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh. 

The sun has left the lea, 
The orange-flower perfumes the bower, 

The breeze is on the sea. 
The lark, his lay who trill'd all day. 

Sits hush'd his partner nigh; 
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour. 

But where is County Guy? 

The village maid steals through the shade 

Her shepherd's suit to hear; 
To Beauty shy, by lattice high. 

Sings high-born CavaHer. 



Coronach 173 

The star of Love, all stars above, 

Now reigns o'er earth and sky, 
And high and low the influence know — 15 

But where is County Guy? 

Scott. 



CORONACH 

He is gone on the mountain, 

He is lost to the forest, 
Like a summer-dried fountain. 

When our need was the sorest. 
The font reappearing 5 

From the raindrops shall borrow. 
But to us comes no cheering, 

To Duncan no morrow! 

The hand of the reaper 

Takes the ears that are hoary, 10 

But the voice of the weeper 

Wails manhood in glory. 
The autumn winds rushing 

Waft the leaves that are searest 
But our flower was in flushing 15 

When blighting was nearest. 

Fleet foot on the correi, 

Sage counsel in cumber, 
Red hand in the foray, 

How sound is thy slumber! 20 

Like the dew on the mountain. 

Like the foam on the river. 
Like the bubble on the fountain. 

Thou art gone; and for ever! 

Scoti. 



174 The Lesser Poets 



HUNTING SONG 

Waken, lords and ladies gay. 
On the mountain dawns the day; 
All the jolly chase is here 
With hawk and horse and hunting-spear; 
Hounds are in their couples yelling, 5 

Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, 
Merrily merrily mingle they, 
'Waken, lords and ladies gay." 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 

The mist has left the mountain gray, 10 

Springlets in the dawn are steaming. 

Diamonds on the brake are gleaming; 

And foresters have busy been 

To track the buck in thicket green ; 

Now we come to chant our lay 15 

Waken, lords and ladies gay." 

Waken, lords and ladies gay. 
To the greenwood haste away; 
We can show you where he lies. 
Fleet of foot and tall of size; 20 

We can show the marks he made 
When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd; 
You shall see him brought to bay; 
'Waken, lords and ladies gay." 

Louder, louder chant the lay 25 

Waken, lords and ladies gay! 

Tell them youth and mirth and glee 

Run a course as well as we; 



Datur Hora Quieti 175 

Time, stern hunt^an! who can balk, 

Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk; 30 

Think of this, and rise with day, 

Gentle lords and ladies gay! 

Scott. 



DATUR HORA QUIETI 

The sun upon the lake is low, 

The wild birds hush their song, 
The hills have evening's deepest glow, 

Yet Leonard tarries long. 
Now all whom varied toil and care 5 

From home and love divide, 
In the calm sunset may repair 

Each to the loved one's side. 

The noble dame, on turret high, 

Who waits her gallant knight, 10 

Looks to the western beam to spy 

The flash of armor bright. 
The village maid, with hand on brow 

The level ray to shade, 
Upon the footpath watches now 15 

For Colin's darkening plaid. 

Now to their mates the wild swans row, 

By day they swam apart. 
And to the thicket wanders slow 

The hind beside the hart. 20 

The woodlark at his partner's side 

Twitters his closing song — 
All meet whom day and care divide, 

But Leonard tarries long! 

Scott. 



176 The Lesser Poets 



THE ROVER 

A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, 

A weary lot is thine! 
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, 

And press the rue for wine. 
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, 5 

A feather of the blue, 
A doublet of the Lincoln green — 

No more of me you knew 

My Love! 
No more of me you knew. 10 

This morn is merry June, I trow. 

The rose is budding fain; 
But she shall bloom in winter snow 

Ere we two meet again." 
He turn'd his charger as he spake 15 

Upon the river shore. 
He gave the bridal-reins a shake, 

Said "Adieu for evermore 

My Love! 
And adieu for evermore." 20 

Scott. 

JOCK OF HAZELDEAN 

"Why weep ye by the tide, ladie? 

Why weep ye by the tide? 

I '11 wed ye to my youngest son, 

And ye sail be his bride: 
And ye sail be his bride, ladie, 5 

Sae comely to be seen " — 
But aye she loot ^ the tears down fa' 
For Jock of Hazeldean. 
1 Loot = let. 



Song to the Evening Star 177 

"Now let this wilfu' grief be done, 

And dry that cheek so pale; 10 

Young Frank is chief of Errington 

And Lord of Langley-dale ; 
His step is first in peaceful ha', 

His sword in battle keen" — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 15 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

"A chain of gold ye sail not lack, 

Nor braid to bind your hair, 
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, 

Nor palfrey fresh and fair; 20 

And you the foremost o' them a' 

Shall ride our forest-queen" — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide, 25 

The tapers glimmer'd fair; 
The priest and bridegroom wait the bride. 

And dame and knight are there: 
They sought her baith by bower and ha'; 

The ladie was not seen! 30 

She 's o'er the Border, and awa' 

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. 

Scott. 

SONG TO THE EVENING STAR 

Star that bringest home the bee, 
And sett'st the weary laborer free! 
If any star shed peace, 't is Thou 

That send'st it from above, 
x\ppearing when Heaven's breath and brow S 

Are sweet as hers we love. 



1 7^ The Lesser Poets 

Come to the luxuriant skies, 
Whilst the landscape's odors rise, 
Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard 

And songs when toil is done, lo 

From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd 

Curls yellow in the sun. 

Star of love's soft interviews, 

Parted lovers on thee muse ; 

Their remembrancer in Heaven 15 

Of thriUing vows thou art, 
Too delicious to be riven 

By absence from the heart. 



Campbell. 



LORD ULLIN'S DA UGHTER 

A Chieftain to the Highlands bound 
Cries " Boatman, do not tarry! 
And I '11 give thee a silver pound 
To row us o'er the ferry!" 

" Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, 
This dark and stormy water? " 

" I 'm the chief of Ulva's isle, 
And this, Lord UlHn's daughter. 

" And fast before her father's men 
Three days we 've fled together, 
For should he find us in the glen. 
My blood would stain the heather. 

" His horsemen hard behind us ride — 
Should they our steps discover, 
Then who will cheer my bonny bride. 
When they have slain her lover?" 



Lord Ullin's Daughter 179 

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, 
" I '11 go, my chief, I 'm ready: 
It is not for your silver bright. 
But for your winsome lady: — 20 

" And by my word! the bonny bird 
In danger shall not tarry; 
So though the waves are raging white 
I '11 row you o'er the ferry." 

By this the storm grew loud apace, 25 

The water-wraith was shrieking; 
And in the scowl of Heaven each face 
Grew dark as they were speaking. 

But still as wilder blew the wind. 

And as the night grew drearer, 30 

Adown the glen rode armed men, 

Their tramphng sounded nearer. 

' haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, 
' Though tempests round us gather; 

I '11 meet the raging of the skies, 35 

But not an angry father." 

The boat has left a stormy land, 

A stormy sea before her,— 

When, oh! too strong for human hand 

The tempest gather 'd o'er her. 40 

And still they row'd amidst the roar 
Of waters fast prevailing: 
Lord Ulhn reach'd that fatal shore,— 
His wrath was changed to wailing. 



i8o The Lesser Poets 

For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade 45 

His child he did discover: — 

One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, 

And one was round her lover. 

" Come back! come back!" he cried in grief 

" Across this stormy water: 50 

And I '11 forgive your Highland chief, 

My daughter! — Oh, my daughter!" 

'T was vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore, 
Return or aid preventing: 

The waters wild went o'er his child, 55 

And he was left lamenting. 

Campbell. 



HOHENLINDEN 

On Linden, when the sun was low. 
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow; 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolKng rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight, 5 

When the drum beat at dead of night . 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast array'd 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade 10 

And furious every charger neigh 'd 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven; 
Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven; 
And louder than the bolts of Heaven 15 

Far flashed the red artillery. 



Ye Mariners of England i8i 

But redder yet that light shall grow 
On Linden's hills of stained snow; 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 

Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 20 

'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds, roUing dun, 
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 



The combat deepens. On, ye Brave 25 

Who rush to glory, or the grave! 
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, 
And charge with all thy chivalry! 

Few, few shall part, where many meet! 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet, 30 

And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 

Campbell. 



YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND 

Ye Mariners of England 

That guard our native seas! 

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, 

The battle and the breeze! 

Your glorious standard launch again 

To match another foe: 

And sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy winds do blow ; 

While the battle rages loud and long 

And the stormy winds do blow. 



The Lesser Poets 

The spirits of your fathers 

Shall start from every wave — 

For the deck it was their field of fame, 

And Ocean was their grave: 

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell 15 

Your manly hearts shall glow, 

As ye sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy winds do blow; 

While the battle rages loud and long 

And the stormy winds do blow. 20 

Britannia needs no bulwarks. 

No towers along the steep; 

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, 

Her home is on the deep. 

With thunders from her native oak 25 

She quells the floods below — 

As they roar on the shore, 

When the stormy winds do blow ; 

When the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 30 

The meteor flag of England 
Shall yet terrific burn; 
Till danger's troubled night depart 
And the star of peace return. 

Then, then, ye ocean- warriors ! 35 

Our song and feast shall flow 
To the fame of your name, 
When the storm has ceased to blow; 
When the fiery fight is heard no more, 
And the storm has ceased to blow. 40 

Campbell. 



Hester 183 



HESTER 

When maidens such as Hester die 
Their place ye may not well supply, 
Though ye among a thousand try 

With vain endeavor. 
A month or more hath she been dead, 5 

Yet cannot I by force be led 
To think upon the wormy bed 

And her together. 

A springy motion in her gait, 

A rising step, did indicate 10 

Of pride and joy no common rate 

That flush'd her spirit : 
I know not by what name beside 
I shall it call: if 't was not pride, 
It was a joy to that allied 15 

She did inherit. 

Her parents held the Quaker rule. 
Which doth the human feehng cool; 
But she was train'd in Nature's school, 

Nature had blest her. 20 

A waking eye, a prying mind, 
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind; 
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot bhnd 

Ye could not Hester. 

My sprightly neighbor! gone before 25 

To that unknown and silent shore, 
Shall we not meet, as heretofore 

Some summer morning — 



184 The Lesser Poets 

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
Hath struck a bliss upon the day, 30 

A bliss that would not go away, 
A sweet fore-warning? 

Lamh. 



ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN 

I SAW where in the shroud did lurk 

A curious frame of Nature's work; 

A flow'ret crushed in the bud, 

A nameless piece of Babyhood, 

Was in her cradle-coffin lying; 5 

Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying: 

So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb 

For the darker closets of the tomb! 

She did but ope an eye, and put 

A clear beam forth, then straight up shut 10 

For the long dark: ne'er more to see 

Through glasses of mortality. 

Riddle of destiny, who can show 

What thy short visit meant, or know 

What thy errand here below? 15 

Shall we say, that Nature blind 

Check'd her hand, and changed her mind 

Just when she had exactly wrought 

A finish'd pattern without fault? 

Could she flag, or could she tire, 20 

Or lack'd she the Promethean fire 

(With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd) 

That should thy Httle limbs have quicken'd? 

Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure 

Life of health, and days mature: 25 

Woman's self in miniature! 

Limbs so fair, they might supply 

(Themselves now but cold imagery) 



On an Infant Dying as Soon as Born 185 

The sculptor to make Beauty by. 

Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry 30 

That babe or mother, one must die; 

So in mercy left the stock 

And cut the branch; to save the shock 

Of young years widow'd, and the pain 

When Single State comes back again 35 

To the lone man who, reft of wife, 

Thenceforward drags a maimed life? 

The economy of Heaven is dark, 

And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark 

Why human buds, like this, should fall, 40 

More brief than fly ephemeral 

That has his day; while shrivel'd crones 

Stiffen with age to stocks and stones; 

And crabbed use the conscience sears 

In sinners of an hundred years. 45 

— Mother's prattle, mother's kiss. 

Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss: 

Rites, which custom does impose, 

Silver bells, and baby clothes; 

Coral redder than those hps 50 

Which pale death did late eclipse; 

Music framed for infants' glee. 

Whistle never tuned for thee; 

Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them, 

Loving hearts were they which gave them.. 55 

Let not one be missing; nurse, 

See them laid upon the hearse 

Of infant slain by doom perverse. 

Why should kings and nobles have 

Pictured trophies to their grave, 60 

And we, churls, to thee deny 

Thy pretty toys with thee to lie — ■ 

A more harmless vanity? 

Lamb. 



1 86 The Lesser Poets 



THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES 

I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions, 
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have been laughing, 1 have been carousing, 
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I loved a Love once, fairest among women: 
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her — 
All, all are gone, the old famihar faces. 

1 have a friend, a kinder friend has no man: 
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; 
Left him, to muse on the old famihar faces. 

Ghost-like 1 paced round the haunts of my childhood, 
Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse, 
Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, 
Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? 
So might we talk of the old familiar faces, 

How some they have died, and some they have left me, 
And some are taken from me; all are departed; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

Lamb, 



Past and Present 187 



PAST AND PRESENT 

I REMEMBER, I remember 

The house where I was born, 

The httle window where the sun 

Came peeping in at morn; 

He never came a wink too soon 5 

Nor brought too long a day; 

But now, I often wish the night 

Had borne my breath away. 

I remember, I remember 

The roses, red and white, 10 

The violets, and the lily-cups — 

Those flowers made of light ! 

The Klacs where the robin built, 

And where my brother set 

The laburnum on his birth-day, — 15 

The tree is living yet! 

I remember, I remember 

Where I was used to swing, 

And thought the air must rush as fresh 

To swallows on the wing; 20 

My spirit flew in feathers then 

That is so heavy now, 

And summer pools could hardly cool 

The fever on my brow. 

I remember, I remember 25 

The fir trees dark and high; 

I used to think their slender tops 

Were close against the sky: 



1 88 The Lesser Poets 

It was a childish ignorance, 

But now 't is httle joy 30 

To know I 'm farther off from Heaven 

Than when I was a boy. 

Hood. 

THE DEATH BED 

We watch'd her breathing thro' the night, 

Her breathing soft and low, 
As in her breast the wave of Ufe 

Kept heaving to and fro. 

So silently we seem'd to speak, 5 

So slowly moved about, 
As we had lent her half our powers 

To eke her living out. 

Our very hopes beHed our fears, • 

Our fears our hopes belied — 10 

We thought her dying when she slept. 

And sleeping when she died. 

For when the morn came dim and sad 

And chill with early showers. 
Her quiet eyelids closed — she had 15 

Another morn than ours. 

Hood. 

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT 
CORUNNA 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 



The Burial of Sir John Moore 189 

We buried him darkiy at dead of night, 5 

The sods with our bayonets turning; 
By the struggHng moonbeam's misty Hght 

And the lantern dimly burning. 



No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; 10 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 

With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow; 
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 15 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hoUow'd his narrow bed 

And smoothed down his lonely pillow. 
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 

And we far away on the billow! 20 

Lightly they '11 talk of the spirit that 's gone 

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, — 
But little he '11 reck, if they let him sleep on, 

In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done 25 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring: 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; 30 

We carved not a Hne, and we raised not a stone. 

But we left him alone with his glory. 

Wolfe. 



190 The Lesser Poets 



THE YOUNG MAY MOON 

The young May moon is beaming, love, 
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love, 

How sweet to rove 

Through Morna's grove, 
When the drowsy world is dreaming, love! 5 

Then awake! — the heavens look bright, my dear, 
'T is never too late for delight, my dear. 

And the best of all ways 

To lengthen our days, 
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear! 10 

Now all the world is sleeping, love. 

But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love, 

And I, whose star, 

More glorious far. 
Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. 15 

Then awake! — till rise of sun, my dear. 
The Sage's glass we '11 shun, my dear, 

Or, in watching the flight 

Of bodies of light. 
He might happen to take thee for one, my dear. 20 

Moore. 



THE JOURNEY ONWARDS 

As slow our ship her foamy track 

Against the wind was cleaving. 
Her trembhng pennant still look'd back 

To that dear isle 't was leaving. 
So loth we part from all we love. 

From all the links that bind us; 
So turn our hearts, as on we rove. 

To those we 've left behind us ! 



The Light of Other Days 191 

When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years 

We talk with joyous seeming — 10 

With smiles that might as well be tears, 

So faint, so sad their beaming; 
While memory brings us back again 

Each early tie that twined us, 
Oh, sweet 's the cup that circles then 15 

To those we 've left behind us! 

And when, in other climes, we meet 

Some isle or vale enchanting. 
Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet, 
. And nought but love is wanting; 20 

We think how great had been our bliss 

If Heaven had but assign'd us 
To live and die in scenes like this, 

With some we 've left behind us ! 

As travelers oft look back at eve 25 

When eastward darkly going. 
To gaze upon that light they leave 

Still faint behind them glowing,— 
So, when the close of pleasure'd day 

To gloom hath near consign 'd us, 30 

We turn to catch one fading ray 

Of joy that 's left behind us. 

Moore. 



THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS 

Oft in the stilly night 

Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
Fond Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me : 
The smiles, the tears 
Of boyhood's years. 



192 The Lesser Poets 

The words of love then spoken; 
The eyes that shone, 
Now dimm'd and gone, 
The cheerful hearts now broken! 10 

Thus in the stilly night 

Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
Sad Memory brings the Hght 
Of other days around me. 

When I remember all 15 

The friends so hnk'd together 
I 've seen around me fall 

Like leaves in wintry weather, 
I feel like one 

Who treads alone 20 

Some banquet-hall deserted, 
Whose lights are fled 
Whose garlands dead, 
And all but he departed! 
Thus in the stilly night 25 

Ere slumber's chain has bound me 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

Moore. 



A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA 

A WET sheet and a flowing sea, 

A wind that follows fast 
And fills the white and rustUng sail 

And bends the gallant mast; 
And bends the gallant mast, my boys, 

While Hke the eagle free 
Away the good ship flies, and leaves 

Old England on the lee. 



A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea 193 

for a soft and gentle wind! 

I heard a fair one cry; 10 

But give to me the snoring breeze 

And white waves heaving high; 
And white waves heaving high, my lads, 

The good ship tight and free — 
The world of waters is our home, 15 

And merry men are we. 

There 's tempest in yon horned moon, 

And lightning in yon cloud; 
But hark the music, mariners! 

The wind is piping loud; 20 

The wind is piping loud, my boys. 

The Hghtning flashes free — 
While the hollow oak our palace is, 

Our heritage the sea. 

Cunningham. 



NOTES AND COMMENT 

(Heavy numerals refer to lines of the poems) 

There are two ways of reading poetry, both profitable. One is to 
read with the single purpose of discovering the author's meaning, 
just what ideas and emotions he is trying to make his readers under- 
stand and feel ; and the other is to read with the intention of discover- 
ing also the interest and value in every allusion which he makes. For 
poetry even more than prose is compact; it is full of ideas which gain 
a great deal of their value because of their association with other ideas 
which are alread>' in the mind of the writer and which he presumes to 
he in the mind of the reader also. When Wordsworth, for example, 
writes 

"Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn," 

he has in mind certain definite figures of Greek mjlhology, and if the 
reader does not know whom the Greeks imagined Proteus and Triton 
to be, he misses to some extent at least the effect of Wordsworth's 
imagery. It is true, however, that in many cases the reader's imagina- 
tion is stimulated by such names and allusions to delightful visions 
of its own; and it is very easy to overestimate the value of investigat- 
ing and discovering the exact significance of the poet's references. 
Certainly nobody would deny that it is much more important to un- 
derstand his message than it is to understand his allusions, and if 
discussion of his allusions distracts the reader's attention from the 
real meaning and delight of the poem as a whole, then such discussion 
has been carried too far. 

The most important thing, then, for the reader of these poems to 
ask himself is, What idea has Wordsworth or Shelley or Scott tried to 
make plain? What does he mean? Sometimes the emotion of the 
poem is very simple, as in The Reverie of Poor Susan, where Words- 
worth's attempt is only to tell the reader how this poor old woman in 

195 



196 Notes and Comment 

London, whenever she used to hear a caged thrush singing, was re- 
minded of her home when she was a girl in the country, and how beau- 
tiful and yet how sad were her recollections. Sometimes the emotion 
is more complicated, as in Shelley's Ode to the West Wind, in which 
the poet's apostrophe to the wind is bound up with his own feeling 
that he and the wind are akin to each other, trying to accomplish the 
same renewal of life in a dead world. Sometimes, as in Wordsworth's 
Ode on Intimations of Immortality, the feeling is not to be called purely 
emotional, but is the expression of wonder and speculation that is 
almost a kind of philosophy. It is generally true, however, that in 
poetry of a fine and high order, such as the selections in this book al- 
most exclusively consist of, the idea or the emotion is simple and clear, 
and with the assistance of a few suggestions a reader, even if he has 
not been very much accustomed to the reading of poetry, ought not 
to feel himself confused or doubtful about what each poem means. 
Whether the meaning of the poem does Or does not particularly ap- 
peal to him, depends of course on what his own moods and feelings 
and training have been. The more he reads and the longer he lives 
and continues to widen his experiences, of course the more open he will 
be to different sorts of emotional interest. But the man or woman 
never lived to whom some sorts of poetry did not appeal, and the 
idea that one does not "like poetry" means simply that one has never 
tried to read it, or else that one has read it as an exercise rather than 
as a pleasure. 

For it is absolutely necessary that in reading poetry we realize that 
we are not reading prose. The ideas which are presented to us in 
poetry are so presented because they are fitted to that kind of presen- 
tation, and to understand them and enjoy them we must be able to 
appreciate the way in which they are presented. Anybody who can 
read, can read prose; but to read poetry some special training is 
necessary. This training concerns itself chiefly of course with the 
matter of rhythm. The chief beauty of poetry, so far as rhythm is 
concerned, lies in the contrast between the steady onward movement 
of the idea and the regular recurring beat of the verse. If, in reading, 
the expression of the idea is sacrificed to the desire to emphasize the 
regular beat of the verse, the reading becomes monotonous, mechan- 



Notes and Comment 197 

ical, and dull. One might almost as well substitute la la la, la la la, 
la la la, for the words of the poet. If on the other, hand the reader is 
so much taken up with the expression of the poet's idea that he ignores 
the beat of the poet's music, then he is really defeating the poet's own 
intention. For he is reading the ideas as if they had been written in 
prose. But the reader must pay attention also to the general form of 
the poem, as well as to its arrangement of meter. We may start with 
the assumption that the poets did nothing carelessly, that if they 
used a particular form they did so because they thought that form 
was especially suited to the ideas they had at that particular time to 
express. In the Ode to the West Wind, as has been said, Shelley's 
emotions are more or less complicated. So he adopts a verse-form 
which gives him room fully to develop those emotions with due re- 
gard to their dignity as well as to their beauty. Wordsworth, on the 
other hand, in The Reverie of Poor Susan, with his extremely simple 
idea, can use a simple form of verse. It is thus worth while to notice 
the different forms which the various writers employ, and to ask one- 
self why this form or that was used in this instance. The immense 
variety of these forms is an interesting illustration of the fact that at 
this particular period every poet was a law to himself. There was no 
prescribed fashion in accordance with which he had to write. 

The following notes, therefore, are planned first to explain the 
meaning of any particular poem when that meaning seems in any 
way obscure; second, to comment upon such allusions or such un- 
usual words or phrases in the poem as seem to demand comment; 
and third, to bring out in some cases the essential relation of the form 
of the poem to the idea which it is intended to convey. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

The Reverie of Poor Susan (Page 3) 

This is one of many poems in which Wordsworth exemplified his 
theory that poetry should deal with simple subjects in simple lan- 
guage. The poem arose, he said, from his "observation of the af- 
fecting music of these birds (canaries) hanging in this way in the 



198 Notes and Comment 

London streets during the freshness and stillness of the Spring morn- 
ing." Lothbury and Cheapside (Hnes 7, 8) are streets in London. 



Simon Lee, the Old Huntsman (Page 3) 

Coleridge, writing in 181 7, declared that if Wordsworth had cut 
out one hundred lines of his poetry, half the criticism directed against 
him would have been avoided. Some such faulty lines are in this 
poem — see for instance stanza ten. On the other hand, the final 
stanza is Wordsworth on a high level. A careful reading of this poem, 
and especially of the eighth and ninth stanzas, will enable one to 
understand pretty well the lesson of the commonplace 'as Wordsworth 
tried to teach it. 

Lines Written in Early Spring (Page 7) 

This is one of the poems in which Wordsworth's unusual view of 
Nature comes out most clearly. Note the third and fifth stanzas 
particularly. 

The Two April Mornings (Page 8) 

If you remember Wordsworth's definition of the proper material of 
poetry you will see how exactly this poem fits his idea. 

The Fountain (Page 10) 

A companion-piece to The Two April Mornings. It illustrates well 
the unevenness of Wordsworth's power. The first seven stanzas are 
commonplace; what follows for five stanzas is beautiful; and the work 
ends with commonplace verses again. 

She Dwelt Among LTntrodden Ways (Page 12) 

This and the three poems which follow it belong together. Lucy, 
here addressed, may or may not have been a real person. If she really 
lived, we do not know who she was. 



Notes and Comment 199 

The Education of Nature (Page 13) 

One of the group to Lucy. Taken in connection with Lines Written 
in Early Spring, it shows how very strong was Wordsworth's behef 
that only by a study of Nature can we understand God; that only by 
Hving as Nature bids us can we become beautiful in character — even 
beautiful in face and form. One of Wordsworth's critics, Lord Mor- 
ley, thinks that Wordsworth did not really beheve these things, but 
expressed only a poetic imagination here. Another critic, Walter 
Raleigh, argues that Wordsworth believed exactly what he says. 

Lucy Gray (Page 15) 

This was founded on fact, Wordsworth says. A little girl in York- 
shire was lost as the story is given here. 

Ruth (Page iS) 

This story, too, has its basis in fact — a girl whose reason left her 
when she was abandoned by her lover and who wandered about the 
Cumberland hills as the poet describes. The picture of Indian life in 
America which Wordsworth here gives he undoubtedly beheved to 
be in the main a true one. At that time (1800) Englishmen knew 
less about America than most Americans know to-day about (let us 
say) Manchuria. The Indian was regarded as a kind of happy child 
of nature, undefiled by contact with civihzation. 

England and S\\^TZERLAND, 1802 (Page 26) 

Napoleon conquered Switzerland in 1800. The "two voices" are 
those of Switzerland (The Mountains) and England (The Sea). 
These facts v/ill explain the sonnet. This and the four sonnets which 
follow are all on phases of the one subject — Liberty. Note that the 
French had conquered Venice also, some years earlier. 

Upon Westminster Bridge (Page 29) 

See how Wordsworth finds for poetical material in the city, not 
the humanity which crowds it, but rather the beauty of that one spe- 



200 Notes and Comment 

cial moment of the day when humanity is quiet and Nature rules, as 
she rules always in solitary places. 

By the Sea (Page 29) 
This sonnet is addressed to the poet's sister Dorothy. 

To THE Daisy (Page 30) 

A subject which Wordsworth took, remembering that Burns had 
also written upon it. A comparison of the two poems is interesting. 

The Rainbow (Page 31) 

Of all Wordsworth's poems wholly simple in form, this is perhaps 
the most successful. 

Neidpath Castle (Page 32) 

Neidpath Castle was in the West Riding in Yorkshire. It was the 
seat of the Marquis of Queensberry, whose family name was Douglas. 
Wordsworth's passion for beautiful natural objects led him to detesta- 
tion of the man who would ruin a beautiful view to make a little 
money. This poem, and the three on Scotch subjects that follow, 
were written while Wordsworth and his sister were on a walking tour 
in Scotland in 1803. 

To The Highland Girl of Inversneyde (Page 32) 

"When beginning to descend the hill toward Loch Lomond we 
overtook two girls, who told us we could not cross the ferry until 
evening, for the boat was gone with a number of people to church. 
One of the girls was exceedingly beautiful: and the figures of both of 
them in gray plaids falHng to their feet, their faces only being un- 
covered, excited our attention before we spoke to them. I think I 
never heard the English language sound more sweetly than from the 
mouth of the elder of these girls, as she stood at the gate answering 
our inquiries, her face flushed with the rain." — Dorothy Words- 
worth's Journal. 



Notes and Comment 201 

The Solitary Reai^er (Page ^s) 

Of all Wordsworth's short poems, this has perhaps most admirers. 
Every line has a strange haunting melody; every emotion it arouses 
is at once mysterious and sincere. Had the poet written this only, he 
must have taken rank at least with Gray, and the poem must have 
been remembered as the famous Elegy is remembered. 

Gien-Almaix, the Narrow Glen (Page 36) 
Ossian was a legendary hero-poet of Scotland. 

The Green Linnet (Page 37) 

Observe, in the fourth stanza here, an example of the close observa- 
tion which so differentiated the poets of this time from the poets of 
the time of Pope. Compare this, too, with similar keen-sightedness 
on the part of Tennyson, as in the first stanza of Mariana. 

She was a Phantoji of Delight (Page :^S) 

Written of the poet's wife, Mary Hutchinson Wordsworth. The 
first four lines are reminiscent of the poem to the Highland Girl of 
Tnversneyde. 

A Lesson (Page 39) 

What is the "lesson" here? Does Wordsworth mean that to grow 
old is to suffer and be sad? 

The Affliction of Margaret (Page 40) 

Margaret, the mother, is supposed to be speaking. Which stanzas 
might really be her own words, and which are "poetic" in the highest 
sense? 

To the Cuckoo (Page 43) 

This and the poem The Dafodils v/hich follows, are fine e.xamples of 
the best type of poetry which Wordsworth produced — simple, beau- 



202 Notes and Comment 

tiful lyrics upon subjects which came to him as he walked about the 
countryside, and the memory of which he carried home to brood upon. 

The Daffodils (Paj);e 44) 
Two of the best lines here — 

"They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude" — 

were composed by the poet's wife. 

Ode to Duty (Page 45) 

It is not a coincidence, but part of the invincible difference between 
the older and the younger poet, that Wordsworth's great ode should 
be addressed to Duty and Keats's to Beauty. They had contradictory 
views of what a poet's message ought to be. Compare the note on 
p. 212, to Keats's Ode on a Grecian Urn. 

To THE Skylark (Page 47) 

Only to be compared with Shelley's longer poem on the same sub- 
ject. Shelley is carried away by the ecstasy and passion of the bird's 
song; Wordsworth finds in the lark an illustration of the wise fine 
spirit which from its own hearthstone can understand and serve the 
world. 

Nature and the Poet (Page 47) 

The references in the ninth, tenth, and eleventh stanzas are to the 
poet's brother, Capt. John Wordsworth, drowned in the wreck of a 
ship of which he was in charge. 

The World is Too Much With Us (Page 51) 

Probably the most famous of Wordsworth's sonnets, this is one 
nevertheless sometimes misunderstood. What the poet declares is 
that, rather than be sunk in commercial ideas, "getting and spending," • 
he v/ould be a pagan; then at least he might have glimpses of some- 
thing higher than himself. He does not, however, say that paganism 



Notes and Comment 203 

is preferable to belief in God, or that it is necessary to be a pagan to 
love Nature. 

Ode on Intimations of Immortality (Page 51) 

This, the "famous Ode" as it has been called, can easily be over- 
studied. It is not really philosophy; it is poetry. Its beauty is its 
excuse for being. It may be read as a series of splendid passages with 
almost as much enjoyment as when it is read as a whole. Neverthe- 
less, that its general meaning may be understood, a brief analysis is 
given. 

Stanzas I-IV declare that, for all the poet's delight in the beauty 
of nature, he misses something that he once found in that beauty- 
he misses the "visionary gleam," "the glory and the dream." 

Stanza V states the reason of this loss he feels, and stanzas VI and 
VII elaborate this reason. 

Stanza VIII, beginning "Thou, whose exterior semblance doth 
belie Thy soul's immensity" — is a long apostrophe to the child— 
"thou, Httle child" — warning him of the saddening effect of years. 

Stanzas IX and X are a glad confession that, in spite of years, 
however, "something still doth hve" of the old joy; and in stanza XI, 
the last, the poet almost admits that for all life takes away of gayety 
and clear knowledge of God, it giv^es back recompense in "the philo- 
sophic mind." 

The theory of the poem, i. e., that youth better than age under- 
stands God and delights in purity and peace, has often been attacked, 
and from the point of view of science and practical fact cannot indeed 
be successfully defended. But Wordsworth is not arguing; he is 
giving us his own emotions in words so melodious, in ligures so beau- 
tiful, that the poem stands now as it has stood for a hundred years, 
among the very highest examples of English poetry. 

Yarrow Unvisited (Page 58) 

The Yarrow is a little river hardly more than a creek, in Selkirk- 
shire, Scotland. It was dear to Dorothy Wordsworth through its 
associations with an old ballad — The Braes of Yarrow — from which 



204 Notes and Comment 

many quotations are taken and used in Wordsworth's poem; for ex- 
ample, "winsome marrow," "fair hangs the apple frae the rock," 
"bonnie holms," etc. 

Desideria (Page 65) 

The poem is in recollection of Wordsworth's daughter Catherine, 
who had died as a little girl years before it was written. 

Within King's College Chapel, Cambridge (Page 63) 

The royal saint (line i) is Henry VI, King of England, 1422-1461, 
who began the chapel but left it incomplete. In the elaborate, grace- 
ful ornamentation of its interior it is one of the most striking buildings 
in England. 

The Trosachs (Page 64) 

A pass in Scotland between Lake Katrine and Lake Achray, in 
Perthshire. 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 

Kubla Khan (Page 69) 

The story of the composition of Kubla Khan has been told in the 
introductory sketch of Coleridge. The poem is a dream — a fantasy — 
and should be so read. It does not tell a story; still less has it any 
lesson to teach. It is almost pure music. Kipling thinks the three 
lines beginning "A savage place!" are among the five or six most 
melodious and imaginative lines in English poetry. 

The Rime of the Ancient Marineb (Page 71) 

The history of this poem has also been told in the introductory 
sketch. The "gloss," or prose explanation in the margin, was not a 
part of the original composition, but was added by Coleridge in 181 7. 
It, like the verse, is partly in imitation of older English. No detailed 
study of The Ancient Mariner is necessary here; the story is simple 



Notes and Comment 205 

and clear, and the music of the verse is easy to follow. Certain 
points should be noted, however. 

(i) Coleridge's purpose was primarily to tell a story. This story was 
supernatural — that is to say, it dealt with incidents and characters 
outside the world of science and understanding — with incidents and 
characters in which we can believe, as we believe a fairy story, only 
by laying aside temporarily our ordinary preconceived ideas of what 
is and is not. A story of the supernatural is not "good if true"; it is 
good, if it makes us cease to care, while we read, whether it is or is not 
true. Coleridge helped so to rouse the imagination of his readers 
that for the time being they were carried away by his words. 

(2) A secondary object has been too much emphasized. There is a 
"moral" in the poem — "Be cruel and you will suffer; repent, be kind, 
and you will be forgiven." But Coleridge did not write the poem to 
enforce this moral. He thought late in life that far too much stress 
had been laid upon this moral by critics. 

(3) The poem, then, was written to be enjoyed. Some of the de- 
scriptions are marvelously close to fact. "The Sun's rim dips; the 
stars rush out; At one stride comes the dark " — is scientifically ac- 
curate in its portrayal of a tropical sunset. "I bit my arm, I sucked 
the blood. And cried A Sail! a sail!" is a detail as true to hfe as any- 
thing in the most "realistic" novel. On the other hand, some equally 
beautiful passages have no possible likeness to fact. "All in a hot 
and copper sky The bloody sun at noon Right up above the mast 
did stand No bigger than the moon" is untrue to fact. The moon 
does not glimmer through fog. Sea water does not burn "green and 
blue and white." What of it? The untruth to fact is no more impor- 
tant than the truth to fact of the other passages. "A willing sus- 
pension of disbelief while reading, was all the poet asked. Read in 
the spirit he wrote it, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner defies criti- 
cism; looked at as a traveler's account of a voyage in the tropics, or 
a sermon on kindness to dumb animals, and the charm dies away 
from it. 

Lines 5-8. Note how the wedding feast contrasts with the 
mariner's terrible story, and so makes it the more vivid. Keats 



2o6 Notes and Comment 

uses contrast in the same skillful fashion in The Eve of St. Agnes 
(p. 141) by showing us first the poor, cold, old beadsman, lonely 
and sad, then telling the brilliant love-story of Madeline and 
Porphyro, and at the end introducing once more the beadsman 
dying forlorn. 

12. Eftsoons: very soon. 

23-24. Compare the order of church, hill and lighthouse with 
that in lines 466, 467. Is this accidental? 

25. If the sun came up on their left and went down on their 
right, in which direction were they traveling? 

62. Swound: swoon. 

76. "For vespers nine" means that for nine days the bird came 
each evening to rest upon the ship. 

79-80. Compare the method of description in this stanza with 
that in stanzas 128 and 129 in Part VII. 

194. In the first edition, Coleridge had the following stanza at 
this point: — 

His bones were black with many a crack 
All bare and black, I ween; 
Jet black and bare, save where with rust 
Of mouldy damp and charnel crust 
They 're patched with purple and green. 
From all subsequent editions this stanza was wisely omitted. 

199. If any lines in the poem are to be chosen as particularly 
effective in their descriptive force, those which make up the next 
two stanzas may well be selected. 

297. Silly means useless — " the buckets that had so long re- 
mained empty." 

314. Sheen: bright. 

385. The movement of the line, with its extra syllable, sug- 
gests the motion of the ship. 

485. What are these " crimson shadows" ? See next stanza. 

516. Rears: lifts, in prayer and song. 

535- Ivy-tod: an ivy bush. 

574. Shrieve: absolve me from my sins. 

623. Forlorn: bereft, deprived of. 



Notes and Comment 207 

Love (Page 97) 

This poem will help one to understand The Ancient Mariner. Here 
is another supernatural story, made more credible, easier to believe, 
because the story itself is used as a kind of background for the real 
human figures of the lover and the girl he loves; just as the story of 
the wonderful voyage is a background for the figures of the Wedding- 
guest and the Mariner. 

Youth and Age (Page 100) 

This subject is of course a favorite one with poets. Byron, for in- 
stance, has some beautiful verses on the same subject. But Byron 
wrote his while still a young man; this poem of Coleridge's is the work 
of a man old and sad, who looks back on years of failure. Compare its 
mournful beauty with the gay confidence of Love — and read the his- 
tory of Coleridge ! 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

OzYMANDiAS OF Egypt (Page 105) 

Shelley wrote few sonnets. This is his best, perhaps, although as 
you read on in his poetry you will find it is not like most of his work; 
it is clean-cut, practical, decisive rather than exalted in spirit, as The 
Cloud is, for example, or the Ode to the West Wind. 

Stanzas Written in Dejection (Page 105) 

Written in 1818, after Shelley's separation from his first wife, and 
not long after the death of one of his children. He was further down- 
cast by his fear of consumption. But the dejection was not to endure; 
in the next two years Shelley did his best work. Note the last two 
Unes and their strange foreshadowing of his death. 

Written Among the Euganean Hills (Page 107) 

Shelley was living at Este, near Venice, at a villa belonging to 
Byron, when this poem was written. The geographical position of 
the hills may be gathered from the poem. 



2o8 Notes and Comment 

Ode to the West Wind (Page 112) 

Next to The Skylark, this is the most generally popular of Shelley's 
poems. Note the rime-scheme. It is called "terza rima," or triple 
rime, and was made famous by Dante in the Divine Comedy. 

Note that the first three stanzas are in form an apostrophe to the 
Wind; really a long description of the wind-spirit. The two last 
stanzas compare the poet's heart, with its wild longings, to the great 
Wind; the poem ending with the triumphant overcoming of the poet's 
sadness by the thought of what the Wind's coming prophesies. 

The Indian Serenade (Page 115) 

A pure lyric — a song of love. The title is merely fanciful. The 
"champak" is an Indian tree, with yellow fragrant blossoms. 
Compare the "mood" of this with the Stanzas Written in De- 
jection. 

Love's Philosophy (Page 116) 

Note the many changes from regular rhythm. In a short song 
these changes are permissible; in a long poem they would grow tire- 



A Dream of the Unknown (Page 116) 

This title is the one given by Palgrave in The Golden Treasury. 
Shelley himself called the poem The Question. In itself a beautiful 
poem, it is further interesting in the light it throws on the author's 
own mind and heart. He dreamed all his life of some wonderful trans- 
forming force of love, which should change and glorify him and the 
whole world; but that love he never found; to the end the ''question" 
of the last two words remained unanswered. The poem, as a de- 
scription of flowers, ma}' be compared with passages from Milton's 
Lycidas (lines 139-151) and from Shakespeare's Winter's Tale (Act IV, 
Scene iv). Certain stanzas In Shelley's own Sensitive Plant curiously 
repeat this description. 



Notes and Comment 209 



The Cloud (Page 118) 

The cloud speaks throughout. In few poems has any author taken 
so many successful liberties with the regularity of rhythm. What is 
the basic meter? Four beats and three, alternately. The two hnes 
which perhaps come nearest to regularity in this poem are in stanza 
four — "And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, which only the 
angels hear." Tliey seem to mark the meter as a free minghng of ana- 
pests (0 LI -) and iambs (u -). But other feet are constantly em- 
ployed, as in the line "Lightning my pilot sits," which begins with a 
trochee (- u), and in the line "Over the rills and the crags and the 
hills," which is made up of dactyls (- u u). Further, the second Hne 
of the poem can be properly read as consisting of two feet only, both 
jerky anapests (u u - u u -) ; and the fourth hne has also two feet only, 
an anapest (u u -) and an iamb (u -). So irregularity would appear 
to triumph. Yet, read aloud, the even and splendid swing of the lines 
is seen to proceed unchecked. Tlie whole poem is a fine illustration of 
what a poet who thoroughly understands his technique can do in the 
way of variation without loss of harmon}'; it may be compared in this 
respect to passages in Wagner's music. 

To A .Skylark (Page 120) 

Note the scheme of the stanzas — four lines ^\•hich rise steadily in 
strength, as the lark rises, and a fifth Hne, long, equable, and sustained, 
as the lark sustains itself while singing. Note the melody — "Sound 
of vernal showers On the twinkhng grass. Rain-awakened flowers" — 
in these w's and e's and r's may be found the basic notes of the lark's 
music. The construction is simple — six stanzas describe the lark, six 
more hken it to what the poet fancies, six more contrast the lark's 
joy with man's sorrow, and the final three are a burst of passionate 
delight from the poet over the lark's song. But one thinks of the 
structure hardly more than he thinks of the "moral" in The Ancient 
Mariner. The poem is, in form and melody, a perfect lyric, as The 
Ancient Mariner is a perfect ballad. 



210 Notes and Comment 

A Song (Page 124) 

This and the four following poems were written by Shelley all at 
about the same time. They are, in a sense, fragments of a greater 
whole. He was engaged in composing larger works — dramas, the 
great elegy on Keats, and other long poems — and these songs and 
bits of verse he wrote in odd hours and in passing moods, as those of 
us less gifted drum with our fingers while trying to think. 

The Invitation (Page 128) 

This "invitation" was dedicated to a Mrs. Williams, a friend and 
neighbor of the Shelleys in the spring before he was drowned. The 
two poems that immediately follow were also written to her. 

A Dirge (Page 136) 

All the sadness of Shelley's heart is concentrated in these eight 
lines. Read them aloud; then read the first sonnet of Keats in this 
collection, and note the difference in spirit. The comparison will tell 
you as much of the difference between Shelley and Keats, in tempera- 
ment, as an hour's talking could. 



JOHN KEATS 

To One Who Has Been Long in City Pent (Page 139) 

This is one of Keats's early sonnets, written when he was little more 
than a boy. It represents, in its slightly sentimental delight in agree- 
able things, the weaker side of the poet's nature. 

10. Philomel: the nightingale. Philomela, daughter of King 
Pandion of Athens, was changed into a nightingale after an un- 
happy life. 

On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer (Page 139) 

Chapman translated the Iliad into Enghsh verse in the time of 
Shakespeare. Keats, who could not read Greek, first made Homer's 
acquaintance through this translation. 



Notes and Comment 211 

It was of course Balboa, not Cortez, who discovered the Pacific. 
But Keats wrote the sonnet late one night, upon impulse, and his 
memory was treacherous. Later, when he discovered his mistake, he 
saw no reason to change the names. Poetry which is true to emotion 
need not be true to fact. 

Happy Insensibility (Page 140) 

15. Petting means "complaining." The word is used in the 
same sense in the phrase " don't get into a pet." 

The Eve of St. Agnes (Page 141) 

St. Agnes Day is January 21. St. Agnes was a Roman maiden, 
martyred about 300 a. d. Formerly two lambs were sacrificed upon 
her altar once a year, upon her Day; and their wool was spun and 
woven by nuns (see lines 115-117). 

Of Keats's longer poems this is undoubtedly the world's favorite. 
Like The Ancient Manner, it is enough in itself to determine the poet's 
standing. It is one of the few poems which maintain themselves at a 
constantly high level of beauty. The story is not of great interest; 
the poem is rather a series of pictures, in which words go as far as 
words can go toward actually reproducing color and music. "The 
carved angels, ever eager-e\^ed, Stared . . . with hair blown back and 
wings put crosswise on their breasts"; "the silver, snarling trumpets"; 
"While legioned fairies paced the coverlet;" "Rose-bloom fell on her 
hands . . . and on her silver cross soft amethyst, And on her hair a 
glory" — such passages as these are as near perfect in their achieve- 
ment of the poet's intentions as anything in the language. Simple 
adjectives, too, here acquire unusual distinction — "pallid moon- 
shine," "her warmed jewels," "An azure-lidded sleep," "a throbbing 
star," "rough ashes." The form of the verse is technically called 
"Spenserian" — because it was first used by Edmund Spenser in his 
poem called the Fcerie Qucene, in 1590. Study out the scheme of the 
rimes and observe the number of feet in each line. 

218. Gules means " red," in heraldic phrasing. The moon- 



212 Notes and Comment 

light, falling on the coat of arms in the window, threw its color 
upon Madeline. 

241. A missal where swart Paynims pray. A missal is a prayer- 
book. Paynims were the Saracens, against whom the Crusades 
were directed. The meaning is — shut away unopened like a 
prayer-book in a land of infidels. 

266. Soother: softer, smoother. 

The Mermaid Tavern (Page 154) 

The "Mermaid" was an inn of London which was much used by 
poets and play-writers about 1600. Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, Francis 
Beaumont, and many others frequented it as a kind of club. Beau- 
mont, writing of it, declares — 

"What things have we seen 
Done at the Mermaid! heard words that have been 
» So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, 
As if that everyone from whence they came 
Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, 
And had resolved to live a fool the rest 
Of his dull Hfe." 

The Realm of Fancy (Page 155) 

"Fancy" was Keats's own special realm. By reading this poem 
closely one may form a very clear idea of what the poet enjoyed. Con- 
trast it with Wordsworth's ideals — with the Ode to Duty for instance! 

Ode on a Grecian Urn (Page 159) 

The group of short "odes" of which this is one, represent, along 
with The Eve of St. Agnes, the best of Keats's poetry. The "urn" 
was some decorated Greek vase which Keats had seen in the British 
Museum, — or more probably, it was a composite recollection of half- 
a-dozen such vases, for no vase with the particular scenes he pictures 
here has ever been identified. Keats's poetical motto, if such it may 
be called, is written plain in the last two lines — "Beauty is truth, 
truth beauty" — that is to say, anything really beautiful is right; 
ugliness shows badness somewhere; and if the world lov^es beauty 



Notes and Comment 213 

sincerely, all will come well in the end. It is a poet's creed, not a 
moralist's. 

Ode To A Nightingale (Page 161) 

This poem was written in one morning, on various scraps of paper, 
while Keats sat under a tree on a friend's lawn. By this time in his 
Hfe Keats had begun to suspect that he was a victim of consumption; 
and the melancholy of his later days may easily be seen in this poem. 
KipHng calls the lines "Charm'd magic casements, opening on the 
foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn" among the five most 
beautiful in English poetry. See the note on Kiibla Khan. 

La Belle Dame Sans Merci (Page 165) 

See The Eve of St. Agnes, stanza 33. The "ancient ditty" of Pro- 
vence was an old French poem of eighty verses, of which the title 
captured Keats's fancy. This poem is a fantasy, a bit of imagination 
only: it has no resemblance in any way to the original French work, 
which indeed Keats never read. 

Bright Star! Would I were Steadfast (Page 166) 

Written at sea, on Keats's last voyage. It was his final poem; he 
did no more work between the time of this sonnet and his death. 



THE LESSER POETS 

Gathering Song of Donald the Black (Page 171) 

This, Hke many of Scott's verses, is really a song — supposed to be 
set to music, and sung by some character in one of his novels or 
long poems. Scott's poetry needs no comment or explanation; it is 
easy to read, easy to understand, easy to enjoy. 

Coronach (Page 173) 

A "coronach" is a lament for the dead. The ''correi" is a hunt- 
ing expedition. 



214 Notes and Comment 

Datur Hora Quieti (Page 175) 

Compare this with Scott's Serenade as an example of what the poet 
can do twice with exactly the same theme. 

The Rover (Page 176) 

One of the most beautiful songs in our language. "A doublet of 
the Lincoln green," in line 7, takes us back to the time when Robin 
Hood and his men had their headquarters in Lincolnshire; they wore 
the "Lincoln green" suits which have since associated the color with 
outlaws and wanderers generally. 

Song to the Evening Star (Page 177) 

Compare this with a treatment of the same idea from Byron's 
Don Juan: 

"Oh Hesperus! thou bringest all good things — 
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer. 
To the young bird the parent's brooding wings, 
The welcome stall to the o'er-labored steer; 
Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings, 
Whate'er our household gods protect of dear, 
Are gathered round us by thy look of rest. 
Thou bringst the child, too, to the mother's breast." 

Hohenlinden (Page 180) 

"This battle was fought Dec. 2, 1800, between the Austrians under 
Archduke John and the French under Moreau, in a forest near Mu- 
nich. Hohen Linden means High Limetrees." (Palgrave's Note.) 

Ye Mariners of England (Page 181) 
A sea-song a hundred years old, but as popular now as ever. 

Hester (Page 183) 

"Hester" was a real person, Hester Savory, a young girl whom 
Lamb knew, though not well. * 



Notes and Comment 215 

On an Infant Dying as Soon as Born (Page 184) 

Lamb was particularly fond of the poetry of the early seventeenth 
century — the time just before and after the death of Shakespeare. He 
edited a volume of selections from the dramatists of that period, and 
did all in his power to induce the readers of his generation to cultivate 
the seventeenth century writers. This poem is not exactly an imita- 
tion of seventeenth century verse, but is so entirely in the spirit of it 
that no one but a very keen critic could tell that it had not been writ- 
ten by some Elizabethan author. 

The Old Familiar Faces (Page 186) 

The best-known of Lamb's few poems. The "friend" here is 
Coleridge. Their quarrel was not of long duration. Indeed, it was 
the death of Coleridge that hastened the death of Lamb. 

Past and Present (Page 187) 

The first two lines of this poem are perhaps as well known as any 
in Enghsh poetry. 

The Burial of Sir John Moore (Page 188) 

The introductory sketch of Charles Wolfe gives a short account of 
the corn-position of this poem. 

A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea (Page 192) 

This, like Ye Mariners of England, is still a popular song everywhere 
in England. The ''hollow oak " is of course a ship — a figure of speech 
at least as old as Homer. 



iBnQliBb IReaMngs tor Scbools 

Wilbur L. Cross, Yale University, General Editor 

Addison: Sir Roger de Coverley Papers. 

Edited by Nathaniel E. Griffin, Princeton University. 
Arnold: Sohrab and Rustum, and Other Poems. 

Edited by Walter S. Hinchman, Groton School. 
Browning: Selections. 

Edited by Charles W. Hodell, Goucher College, Baltimore. 
Bunyan: Pilgrim's Progress, Part I. 

Edited by John H. Gardiner, Harvard University. 
Burke: On Conciliation. 

Edited by Daniel V. Thompson, Lawrenceville School. 
Byron: Prisoner of Chillon and Other Poems. 

Edited by Hardin Craig, University of Minnesota. 

Defoe: Robinson Crusoe. 

Edited by Wilbur L. Cross, Yale University. 
Dickens : Tale of Two Cities. 

Edited by E, H. Kemper McComb, Manual Training High 

School, Indianapolis, Ind. 

Eliot: Silas Marner. 

Edited by Ellen E. Garrigues, De Witt Clinton High 
School, New York City. 

Franklin : Autobiography. 

Edited by Frank W. Pine, Hill School, Pottstown, Pa. 
Gray: Eleg>^ and Other Poems, with Goldsmith: The 

Deserted Village and Other Poems. Edited by Morris 

W. Croll, Princeton University. 

Huxley: Selections. 

Edited by Charles Alphonso Smith, University of Virginia. 
Irving: Sketch Book. 

Edited by Arthur W. Leonard, Phillips Academy, Andover, 

Mass. 

Lincoln: Selections. 

Edited by William D. Armes, University of California. 

Macaulay: Life of Johnson. 

Edited by Chester N. Greenough, Harvard University. 

Macaulay: Lord Clive and Warren Hastings. 

Edited by Frederick E. Pierce, Yale University, and 
Samuel Thurber, Jr., Technical High School, Newton, Mass. 



iEnGli6b IReaDinGS tor Qcboole—Contmuec^ 

Milton: Lyric and Dramatic Poems. 

Edited by Martin W. Sampson, Cornell University. 

Old Testament Narratives. 

Edited by George H. Nettleton, Yale University. 

Scott: Quentin Durward. 

Edited by Thomas H. Briggs, Eastern Illinois State Normal 
School, Charleston, 111. 

Scott: Ivanhoe. 

Edited by Alfred A. May, Shattuck School, Faribault, Minn. 

Scott: Lady of the Lake. 

Edited by Alfred M. Hitchcock, Public High School, Hart- 
ford, Conn. 

Shakespeare: Macbeth. 

Edited by Felix E. Schelling, University of Pennsylvania. 

Shakespeare: Merchant of Venice. 

Edited by Frederick E. Pierce, Yale University. 

Shakespeare: Julius Cassar. 

Edited by Ashley H. Thorndike, Columbia University. 

Shakespeare: As You Like It. 

Edited by John W. Cunliffe and George Roy Elliott, 
University of Wisconsin. 

Stevenson: Inland Voyage and Travels with a Donkey. 
Edited by Edwin Mims, University of North Carolina. 

Stevenson: Treasure Island. 

Edited by Stuart P. Sherman, University of Illinois. 

Tennyson: Idylls of the King. 

Edited by John Erskine, Columbia University. 

Thackeray: English Humorists. 

Edited by William Lyon Phelps, Yale University. 

Washington: Farewell Address, with Webster: First 
Bunker Hill Oration. Edited by William E. Simonds, Knox 
College, Galesburg, 111. 

Wordsworth: Selections. Also from Coleridge, Shelley, 
and Keats. Edited by James W. Linn, University of 
Chicago. 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY. ^"iVv^oRK 



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